Emasculation and Emptiness n Ernest Hemingway's the Sun Also Rises ...
Eric Shapiro - Padraig Kirwan - The Emergence of Modern America - Goldsmiths University of London - 6/15/11
It’s easy to romanticize a milieu that nurtured the talents of such great writers as Gertrude Stein, F. Scott Fitzgerald, John Dos Passos, and Earnest Hemingway. According to the conventional narrative, European locales like Paris and Spain provided fertile ground for these seminal literary figures, stifled by the stiff conformism of the U.S. during this period. In many ways, their bohemian lifestyles epitomize what was “cool” about the 1920s post-war years. Liberal, carefree, and unshackled by societal norms, they seemed to represent a compelling alternative to the daily grind.
While it is tempting to mythologize the pantheon of talents that has inspired so many modern writers, to do so overlooks a far more complicated reality. The Sun Also Rises offers a less glamorous, but far more intriguing look at the expatriate community in Europe, portraying not a bohemian paradise, but a retreat for lost souls. Members of the “The Lost Generation,” profoundly wounded by the horrors of the First World War, have lost all sense of purpose in their lives.
Bereft of the values to give their lives purpose and plagued by an unshakable sense of inadequacy, they fill their personal voids with binge drinking, meaningless sex, and superficial social interaction. Every character in the novel is broken, unable to face their personal demons and, consequently, restricted in their capacity to find happiness or relate to others in a healthy manner. While each individual has their own insecurities, certain overarching themes bind them together in a web of existential misery. Jake Barnes, Bill Gorton, Mike Campbell and Robert Cohen represent in differing ways the spiritual emasculation of the post-war generation, while Brett Ashley, the novel’s sole major female character, must struggle with the emotional consequences of sexual liberation.
At the center of The Sun Also Rises,and indeed much of Hemingway’s fiction in general, is an overwhelming sense of futility. His characters are subject to forces totally beyond their control. John Peale Bishop writes: “In Hemingway, the will is lost to action. There are actions, no lack of them, but… they have only the significance of chance. Their violence does not make up for their futility… They are quite without meaning” (Bishop 41-2). This pervasive sense of futility stems from the trauma of World War I, the single most crucial event in shaping the outlooks of Hemingway and his characters. Furthermore, Bishop wrote, “not only did the young suffer in the war, but every abstraction that would have sustained and given dignity to their suffering. The war made the traditional morality unacceptable… it revealed its immediate inadequacy. So that at its end the survivors were left to face, as they could, a world without values” (Bishop 21). Bravery, self-sacrifice, patriotism, and loyalty in devotion to higher ideals all died in the trenches, leaving a moral and spiritual vacuum that Hemingway’s characters struggle to fill.
Watching friends die, all for the sake of gaining ground that may well be retaken by the enemy a day later, gave rise to feelings of futility and posed some difficult questions. What use is sacrificing one’s life for a higher ideal, a mere abstraction, when in death, you are reduced to a statistic, one of the many nameless soldiers deprived of life to abet the power struggle of leaders utterly divorced from his or her plight? What is it to be a man when your prior notions of masculinity, based around bravery, strength, and physical prowess, have been leveled by mechanized warfare? Similar questions arise in all wars, but the sheer scale and nature of suffering in World War I, as well as the lack of tangible gains on a day-to-day and longer-term basis, rendered the effects all the more devastating.
Malcolm Cowley stresses the intimate connection between the crisis of the war and its aftermath by reference to two Hemingway novels: “The Sun Also Rises was written three years before the novel in which the crisis occurs, but it deals with what might have been a later stage in the life of Frederic Henry [the protagonist of A Farewell to Arms]. It is not until reading A Farewell to Arms that we understand the real nature of the other hero’s wound, which now impresses us as being moral rather than physical” (Cowley 757-8). A Farewell to Arms deals with the war itself and chronicles firsthand the mental and physical suffering of soldiers on the frontline. The Sun Also Rises documents the aftermath, as profoundly damaged individuals struggle to go on with their life in the wake of traumatizing wartime events. Without any overriding moral or political framework to give them purpose, the characters live only for instant gratification. Bill Brompton aptly describes the expatriate lifestyle on his fishing trip with Jake: “You’re an expatriate… You drink yourself to death. You become obsessed by sex. You spend all your time talking, not working… you hang around cafes” (Hemingway 120). None of these activities can substitute for a true contentment, one characterized by devotion to something higher than oneself, be it art, political ideology, or religion. These traditional pillars of meaning have little relevance in The Sun Also Rises. On some level the characters realize that their endless self-indulgence is leaving them deeply dissatisfied. This explains Jake’s offhand comment to Georgette that “everybody’s sick” (Hemingway 23). Nevertheless, they are powerless to break the cycle.
Given the general sense of apathy that pervades The Sun Also Rises, the male characters’ preoccupation with masculinity is striking. They are obsessed with proving their “manliness,” even though the war has left them unsure of what it truly means to be a man. As a result, they wrestle with feelings of insecurity and feel threatened by women’s newfound independence, which exacerbates their insecurity and opens them up to sexual manipulation. Liberated women like Brett challenge their position of dominance, on which their egos have been taught to depend.
Robert Cohen serves as the focal point for the shared insecurity experienced by men in The Sun Also Rises. He is no more emasculated than his companions, but his “otherness,” coupled with a devotion to outdated notions of chivalry, make him the scapegoat of the group. Robert Cohen’s “otherness” is key to understanding his character. He stands apart from his fellows in two obvious ways: he is Jewish and he is a non-veteran. The former distinction has led to misconceptions about Hemingway and his work. Critics have accused Hemingway of subscribing to Jewish stereotypes in his portrayal of Robert Cohen. Jeremy Kaye wrote in The Hemingway Review: “the scholarly archive on Hemingway's negative, if conflicted, characterization of Cohn is virtually unified in its belief that The Sun Also Rises’ infamous Jewish boxer conforms to anti-Semitic stereotypes” (Kaye 1). Neurotic, emasculated, and socially awkward, Cohen does indeed possess many traits negatively associated with the Diaspora male Jew. However, Hemingway’s primary intent is not to caste all Jews in a bad light, but to amplify the pervasive themes of emasculation and futility that afflict every one of his male characters. Hemingway renders no judgment of Judaism as a religion; it is only significant insofar as it contributes to Cohen’s sense of otherness and emasculation.
Cohen’s non-veteran status is also significant in explaining his insecurity. He spent his formative years at Princeton, an elite academic institution, whereas the other main characters in The Sun Also Rises were shaped by their participation in Word War I. Hence, their outlooks are drastically different. As someone whose limited life experience does not include the faith-shattering experience of combat, Cohen derives his worldview from romantic sentiments found in novels. His apparent adherence to these outdated notions of romance and chivalry provokes the ire of his companions, whose experiences in the war have rendered them nihilistic. They see Cohen as hopelessly naïve.
Robert Cohen’s Judaism and non-veteran status go some ways towards defining him, but in isolation they paint an incomplete picture; his real defining element is a lack of purpose, albeit of a different variety than his fellow expatriates. Having no true values, Cohen constructs an artificial persona. For example, he compensates for his insecurity by excelling in activities associated with physical toughness: “He learned [boxing] painfully and thoroughly to counteract the feeling of inferiority and shyness he had felt on being treated as a Jew at Princeton” (Hemingway 11). His transparent attempts at self-invention are irritating to the other characters, which see that his “tough guy” pursuits merely are merely a ploy to mask his weakness and insecurity. Despite his attempts to project toughness, Cohen is unable to stand up to the women in his life, further undermining his status in the eyes of the other men. When Jake raises the prospect of going on a trip to visit his female friend, Cohen refuses because he knows that his fiancée Frances will object to him interacting with other women.
Intellectually, Robert Cohen seems incapable of independent thought. Jake points out when contemplating his own situation: “Perhaps I had read something about it once. That was the way Robert Cohn was about all of Paris” (Hemingway 49). In the absence of real life experience, Cohen turns to romantic literature for direction. It is easy to label him as an arbiter of these values, but in truth he only represents them on a superficial level. Like the other male characters in The Sun Also Rises, he is chiefly concerned with proving his masculinity. In the process, he is willing to set aside his chivalric values. Cohen is just as callous, self-centered and amoral as his companions, but he differentiates himself by operating under romantic notions gleaned from reading materials.
Cohen is willing to use the other people in his life as props in order to construct his identity. For example, he ends a relationship solely so he can say that he has had a mistress: “Why, you see, Robert’s always wanted to have mistress, and if he doesn’t marry me, why, then he’s had one… And if he marries me, like he’s always promised he would, that would be the end of all the romance” (Hemingway 58). Cohen’s break with Frances, like most of his words and actions, is not rooted in any true romantic impulse. Instead, it is merely a way for him to cement his manufactured identity by imitating the romantic lifestyle of the stereotypical philandering writer.
Cohen is unable to cope when reality does not conform to his romantic ideals. When Brett rejects him after a brief fling, his artifice begins to crumble. Brett explains: “he can’t believe it didn’t mean anything” (Hemingway 185). He attaches a significance to sex that does not apply in the world of the expatriates. He is unable to cope when Brett refuses to play along with his romantic narrative. In Jake’s words, “he was going to stay, and true love would conquer all” (Hemingway 203). When this is not the case, Cohen responds with physical violence, violating his own professed values. It takes seeing Brett with Romero to realize that the world is not the romantic playground he convinced it as. Deprived of the illusions that gave his life purpose, Cohen is left to confront the same meaninglessness as his companions: “Now everything’s gone. Everything” (Hemingway 198).
The male characters in The Sun Also Rises often use Cohen as a scapegoat to deflect insecurities about their own masculinity. For instance, when Mike perceives that Brett is neglecting him to flirt with the bullfighter Romero, he picks a fight with Cohen, asking: “Why do you follow Brett around like a poor bloody steer. Don’t you know when you’re not wanted” (Hemingway 146). This statement is ironic in that the same can be said of Mike and all the other men who cling to Brett despite her clear lack of interest in them.
This especially applies to Jake Barnes. At first, he seems the opposite of Cohen, but over the course of The Sun Also Rises their similarities become apparent. Jake’s demeanor is different than Cohen’s. On the rare occasions that he responds to external events, his reactions are muted, sending the impression that he takes everything in stride. He appears to observers as your typical everyman, reasonably affable and intelligent but not possessing of nuanced thoughts and motivations. He prefers to see the world in materialist terms, as is clear when he describes his fondness for France: “Everything is on such a clear financial basis in France… No one makes things complicated by becoming your friend… if you want people to like you you have only to spend a little money… it would be a sincere liking because it would have a sound basis” (Hemingway 237). In a country where the exchange of currency substitutes for more meaningful interaction, one need not concern himself with the moral and psychological uncertainties that define the human condition. This speaks volumes about why Jake and his fellow veterans seek refuge there.
Jake’s behaviors and observations hint at a far more complicated character than his demeanor would suggest. His superficial lack of affect or concern is ingenuine, a defense mechanism formulated to guard against the insecurities that threaten to subsume him. Ironically, he goes out of his way to downplay and make light of the thoughts and events that cause him pain or discomfort. For example, in talking about his war wound with Brett, he disingenuously claims: “what happened to me is supposed to be funny” (Hemingway 34). In between rare moments of clarity, Jake remains out of touch with his own feelings, hiding behind a veneer of casual irreverence. He is afraid that showing any vulnerability will reflect negatively on his manhood.
Jake casts himself as an impartial observer and feigns detachment, but his words give him away. Like Robert Cohen, he is insecure about his masculinity. This is partially due to an injury sustained in World War I, which has left him incapable of sexual intercourse. He compounds the problem by spending time with Brett, who will not commit to him. True to his character, Jake denies his feelings for Brett, claiming“I don’t give a damn any more” when Mike asks if he still loves her (Hemingway 128). Brett reciprocates Jake’s feelings, but she is unwilling to become romantically involved with someone who is incapable of intercourse. Jake is perpetually tormented by Brett’s relationships with other men. When he witnesses Brett dancing at a bar with several gay men, he comments that he is disgusted by their homosexuality. Instead of acknowledging his own insecurity, Jake challenges the masculinity of others.
When he discovers that Robert Cohen had a brief affair with Brett. Jake handles his jealousy in a passive-aggressive manner, speaking ill of Cohen behind his back and even expressing downright contempt. Jake admits: “I was blind, unforgivably jealous of what had happened to him… I certainly did hate him” (Hemingway 105). He is especially critical of Cohen for refusing to accept that his sexual relationship with Brett did not mean anything. Jake’s contempt for Cohen is hypocritical and denotes a bitter jealousy that Cohen was able to have sex with Brett when he is incapable of doing so. He takes a sadistic pleasure in watching his friend suffer: “I liked to see them hurt Cohen” (Hemingway 152). The attacks Jake and his friends direct at Cohen are misplaced displays of self-loathing. By tearing down a vulnerable target, they seek to bolster their own masculinity and assuage their insecurities, all of which find their expression in relation to Brett. As a sexually desirable woman, she serves as the focal point for the male characters’ desperate need to prove their masculinity. In a sense, she is the “prize” for which they are competing.
To be sure, Cohen’s transparent attempts to win over Brett irritate everyone. But they are far from unique. Jake subjects himself to the same humiliation, unable to accept that Brett will never enter into a romantic relationship with him. In doing so, he emasculates himself and exacerbates his insecurity, repeatedly allowing Brett to take precedence over his pastimes and male friendships. For instance, he eagerly sets aside his fishing trip to meet Brett when she asks for his emotional support. Without so much as a second thought, Jake abandons a worthwhile, therapeutic experience of male bonding, sportsmanship and relaxation in nature to spend time with a woman who makes him miserable. At the fiesta in Pamplona, he sublimates his own desire for Brett by going out of his way to help her find Romero so she can fulfill her impulse to sleep with the bullfighter. Jake is more socially adept than Cohen, so his actions do not seem as obviously pathetic, but the essence of his behavior is the same.
Despite vastly different temperaments and life experiences, both characters are driven by the same insecurities are not as simple as they first appear. Critics who point to Robert Cohen as an archetype of traditional, romantic values in a sea of post-World War I apathy are only seeing part of the picture. He pays lip service to old-fashioned ideals that have ceased to apply, but beneath all of that sentiment is a man who is just as lost, living a life that is just as meaningless as those of the other characters. His romantic pretensions are but futile attempt to give life purpose by turning it into a romance novel.
Jake deals with his lack of values by taking refuge in false apathy, but it is clear to the reader that he is only feigning indifference to avoid dealing with his problems. To admit that he cares would require confronting his post-war emasculation (figurative and literal), which he is incapable of. Jake aptly represents the attitude of the Lost Generation. His seemingly carefree lifestyle is really a form of self-denial, a distraction from the psychological wounds inflicted by a brutal war. However, try as they might, Jake and others like him cannot shake the feeling of dissatisfaction that comes with such a lifestyle. Bursts of humanity shine through the alcohol-facilitated wall of apathy they have erected for themselves. As much as Jake tries to deny his humanity, it is clear that he and his friends, Robert Cohen included, will never be content until they embrace it along with all of its implications. Works Cited
Bishop, John Peale. "An Homage to Hemingway." New Republic 89.1145 11 Nov. 39-42. The New Republic Archive. Web. 5 Jun 2011.
Cowley, Malcolm. "Hemingway and the Hero." New Republic 111.23 4 Dec. 754-758. The New Republic Archive. Web. 5 Jun 2011.
Hemingway, Ernest. The Sun Also Rises. Scribner Book Company, 2006. Print.
Kaye, Jeremy. "The "Whine" of Jewish Manhood: Re-Reading Hemingway's Anti-Semitism, Reimagining Robert Cohen." Hemingway Review 25.2 Spring 2006. 44-62. Literature Online. Web. 10 Jun 2011.
It’s easy to romanticize a milieu that nurtured the talents of such great writers as Gertrude Stein, F. Scott Fitzgerald, John Dos Passos, and Earnest Hemingway. According to the conventional narrative, European locales like Paris and Spain provided fertile ground for these seminal literary figures, stifled by the stiff conformism of the U.S. during this period. In many ways, their bohemian lifestyles epitomize what was “cool” about the 1920s post-war years. Liberal, carefree, and unshackled by societal norms, they seemed to represent a compelling alternative to the daily grind.
While it is tempting to mythologize the pantheon of talents that has inspired so many modern writers, to do so overlooks a far more complicated reality. The Sun Also Rises offers a less glamorous, but far more intriguing look at the expatriate community in Europe, portraying not a bohemian paradise, but a retreat for lost souls. Members of the “The Lost Generation,” profoundly wounded by the horrors of the First World War, have lost all sense of purpose in their lives.
Bereft of the values to give their lives purpose and plagued by an unshakable sense of inadequacy, they fill their personal voids with binge drinking, meaningless sex, and superficial social interaction. Every character in the novel is broken, unable to face their personal demons and, consequently, restricted in their capacity to find happiness or relate to others in a healthy manner. While each individual has their own insecurities, certain overarching themes bind them together in a web of existential misery. Jake Barnes, Bill Gorton, Mike Campbell and Robert Cohen represent in differing ways the spiritual emasculation of the post-war generation, while Brett Ashley, the novel’s sole major female character, must struggle with the emotional consequences of sexual liberation.
At the center of The Sun Also Rises,and indeed much of Hemingway’s fiction in general, is an overwhelming sense of futility. His characters are subject to forces totally beyond their control. John Peale Bishop writes: “In Hemingway, the will is lost to action. There are actions, no lack of them, but… they have only the significance of chance. Their violence does not make up for their futility… They are quite without meaning” (Bishop 41-2). This pervasive sense of futility stems from the trauma of World War I, the single most crucial event in shaping the outlooks of Hemingway and his characters. Furthermore, Bishop wrote, “not only did the young suffer in the war, but every abstraction that would have sustained and given dignity to their suffering. The war made the traditional morality unacceptable… it revealed its immediate inadequacy. So that at its end the survivors were left to face, as they could, a world without values” (Bishop 21). Bravery, self-sacrifice, patriotism, and loyalty in devotion to higher ideals all died in the trenches, leaving a moral and spiritual vacuum that Hemingway’s characters struggle to fill.
Watching friends die, all for the sake of gaining ground that may well be retaken by the enemy a day later, gave rise to feelings of futility and posed some difficult questions. What use is sacrificing one’s life for a higher ideal, a mere abstraction, when in death, you are reduced to a statistic, one of the many nameless soldiers deprived of life to abet the power struggle of leaders utterly divorced from his or her plight? What is it to be a man when your prior notions of masculinity, based around bravery, strength, and physical prowess, have been leveled by mechanized warfare? Similar questions arise in all wars, but the sheer scale and nature of suffering in World War I, as well as the lack of tangible gains on a day-to-day and longer-term basis, rendered the effects all the more devastating.
Malcolm Cowley stresses the intimate connection between the crisis of the war and its aftermath by reference to two Hemingway novels: “The Sun Also Rises was written three years before the novel in which the crisis occurs, but it deals with what might have been a later stage in the life of Frederic Henry [the protagonist of A Farewell to Arms]. It is not until reading A Farewell to Arms that we understand the real nature of the other hero’s wound, which now impresses us as being moral rather than physical” (Cowley 757-8). A Farewell to Arms deals with the war itself and chronicles firsthand the mental and physical suffering of soldiers on the frontline. The Sun Also Rises documents the aftermath, as profoundly damaged individuals struggle to go on with their life in the wake of traumatizing wartime events. Without any overriding moral or political framework to give them purpose, the characters live only for instant gratification. Bill Brompton aptly describes the expatriate lifestyle on his fishing trip with Jake: “You’re an expatriate… You drink yourself to death. You become obsessed by sex. You spend all your time talking, not working… you hang around cafes” (Hemingway 120). None of these activities can substitute for a true contentment, one characterized by devotion to something higher than oneself, be it art, political ideology, or religion. These traditional pillars of meaning have little relevance in The Sun Also Rises. On some level the characters realize that their endless self-indulgence is leaving them deeply dissatisfied. This explains Jake’s offhand comment to Georgette that “everybody’s sick” (Hemingway 23). Nevertheless, they are powerless to break the cycle.
Given the general sense of apathy that pervades The Sun Also Rises, the male characters’ preoccupation with masculinity is striking. They are obsessed with proving their “manliness,” even though the war has left them unsure of what it truly means to be a man. As a result, they wrestle with feelings of insecurity and feel threatened by women’s newfound independence, which exacerbates their insecurity and opens them up to sexual manipulation. Liberated women like Brett challenge their position of dominance, on which their egos have been taught to depend.
Robert Cohen serves as the focal point for the shared insecurity experienced by men in The Sun Also Rises. He is no more emasculated than his companions, but his “otherness,” coupled with a devotion to outdated notions of chivalry, make him the scapegoat of the group. Robert Cohen’s “otherness” is key to understanding his character. He stands apart from his fellows in two obvious ways: he is Jewish and he is a non-veteran. The former distinction has led to misconceptions about Hemingway and his work. Critics have accused Hemingway of subscribing to Jewish stereotypes in his portrayal of Robert Cohen. Jeremy Kaye wrote in The Hemingway Review: “the scholarly archive on Hemingway's negative, if conflicted, characterization of Cohn is virtually unified in its belief that The Sun Also Rises’ infamous Jewish boxer conforms to anti-Semitic stereotypes” (Kaye 1). Neurotic, emasculated, and socially awkward, Cohen does indeed possess many traits negatively associated with the Diaspora male Jew. However, Hemingway’s primary intent is not to caste all Jews in a bad light, but to amplify the pervasive themes of emasculation and futility that afflict every one of his male characters. Hemingway renders no judgment of Judaism as a religion; it is only significant insofar as it contributes to Cohen’s sense of otherness and emasculation.
Cohen’s non-veteran status is also significant in explaining his insecurity. He spent his formative years at Princeton, an elite academic institution, whereas the other main characters in The Sun Also Rises were shaped by their participation in Word War I. Hence, their outlooks are drastically different. As someone whose limited life experience does not include the faith-shattering experience of combat, Cohen derives his worldview from romantic sentiments found in novels. His apparent adherence to these outdated notions of romance and chivalry provokes the ire of his companions, whose experiences in the war have rendered them nihilistic. They see Cohen as hopelessly naïve.
Robert Cohen’s Judaism and non-veteran status go some ways towards defining him, but in isolation they paint an incomplete picture; his real defining element is a lack of purpose, albeit of a different variety than his fellow expatriates. Having no true values, Cohen constructs an artificial persona. For example, he compensates for his insecurity by excelling in activities associated with physical toughness: “He learned [boxing] painfully and thoroughly to counteract the feeling of inferiority and shyness he had felt on being treated as a Jew at Princeton” (Hemingway 11). His transparent attempts at self-invention are irritating to the other characters, which see that his “tough guy” pursuits merely are merely a ploy to mask his weakness and insecurity. Despite his attempts to project toughness, Cohen is unable to stand up to the women in his life, further undermining his status in the eyes of the other men. When Jake raises the prospect of going on a trip to visit his female friend, Cohen refuses because he knows that his fiancée Frances will object to him interacting with other women.
Intellectually, Robert Cohen seems incapable of independent thought. Jake points out when contemplating his own situation: “Perhaps I had read something about it once. That was the way Robert Cohn was about all of Paris” (Hemingway 49). In the absence of real life experience, Cohen turns to romantic literature for direction. It is easy to label him as an arbiter of these values, but in truth he only represents them on a superficial level. Like the other male characters in The Sun Also Rises, he is chiefly concerned with proving his masculinity. In the process, he is willing to set aside his chivalric values. Cohen is just as callous, self-centered and amoral as his companions, but he differentiates himself by operating under romantic notions gleaned from reading materials.
Cohen is willing to use the other people in his life as props in order to construct his identity. For example, he ends a relationship solely so he can say that he has had a mistress: “Why, you see, Robert’s always wanted to have mistress, and if he doesn’t marry me, why, then he’s had one… And if he marries me, like he’s always promised he would, that would be the end of all the romance” (Hemingway 58). Cohen’s break with Frances, like most of his words and actions, is not rooted in any true romantic impulse. Instead, it is merely a way for him to cement his manufactured identity by imitating the romantic lifestyle of the stereotypical philandering writer.
Cohen is unable to cope when reality does not conform to his romantic ideals. When Brett rejects him after a brief fling, his artifice begins to crumble. Brett explains: “he can’t believe it didn’t mean anything” (Hemingway 185). He attaches a significance to sex that does not apply in the world of the expatriates. He is unable to cope when Brett refuses to play along with his romantic narrative. In Jake’s words, “he was going to stay, and true love would conquer all” (Hemingway 203). When this is not the case, Cohen responds with physical violence, violating his own professed values. It takes seeing Brett with Romero to realize that the world is not the romantic playground he convinced it as. Deprived of the illusions that gave his life purpose, Cohen is left to confront the same meaninglessness as his companions: “Now everything’s gone. Everything” (Hemingway 198).
The male characters in The Sun Also Rises often use Cohen as a scapegoat to deflect insecurities about their own masculinity. For instance, when Mike perceives that Brett is neglecting him to flirt with the bullfighter Romero, he picks a fight with Cohen, asking: “Why do you follow Brett around like a poor bloody steer. Don’t you know when you’re not wanted” (Hemingway 146). This statement is ironic in that the same can be said of Mike and all the other men who cling to Brett despite her clear lack of interest in them.
This especially applies to Jake Barnes. At first, he seems the opposite of Cohen, but over the course of The Sun Also Rises their similarities become apparent. Jake’s demeanor is different than Cohen’s. On the rare occasions that he responds to external events, his reactions are muted, sending the impression that he takes everything in stride. He appears to observers as your typical everyman, reasonably affable and intelligent but not possessing of nuanced thoughts and motivations. He prefers to see the world in materialist terms, as is clear when he describes his fondness for France: “Everything is on such a clear financial basis in France… No one makes things complicated by becoming your friend… if you want people to like you you have only to spend a little money… it would be a sincere liking because it would have a sound basis” (Hemingway 237). In a country where the exchange of currency substitutes for more meaningful interaction, one need not concern himself with the moral and psychological uncertainties that define the human condition. This speaks volumes about why Jake and his fellow veterans seek refuge there.
Jake’s behaviors and observations hint at a far more complicated character than his demeanor would suggest. His superficial lack of affect or concern is ingenuine, a defense mechanism formulated to guard against the insecurities that threaten to subsume him. Ironically, he goes out of his way to downplay and make light of the thoughts and events that cause him pain or discomfort. For example, in talking about his war wound with Brett, he disingenuously claims: “what happened to me is supposed to be funny” (Hemingway 34). In between rare moments of clarity, Jake remains out of touch with his own feelings, hiding behind a veneer of casual irreverence. He is afraid that showing any vulnerability will reflect negatively on his manhood.
Jake casts himself as an impartial observer and feigns detachment, but his words give him away. Like Robert Cohen, he is insecure about his masculinity. This is partially due to an injury sustained in World War I, which has left him incapable of sexual intercourse. He compounds the problem by spending time with Brett, who will not commit to him. True to his character, Jake denies his feelings for Brett, claiming“I don’t give a damn any more” when Mike asks if he still loves her (Hemingway 128). Brett reciprocates Jake’s feelings, but she is unwilling to become romantically involved with someone who is incapable of intercourse. Jake is perpetually tormented by Brett’s relationships with other men. When he witnesses Brett dancing at a bar with several gay men, he comments that he is disgusted by their homosexuality. Instead of acknowledging his own insecurity, Jake challenges the masculinity of others.
When he discovers that Robert Cohen had a brief affair with Brett. Jake handles his jealousy in a passive-aggressive manner, speaking ill of Cohen behind his back and even expressing downright contempt. Jake admits: “I was blind, unforgivably jealous of what had happened to him… I certainly did hate him” (Hemingway 105). He is especially critical of Cohen for refusing to accept that his sexual relationship with Brett did not mean anything. Jake’s contempt for Cohen is hypocritical and denotes a bitter jealousy that Cohen was able to have sex with Brett when he is incapable of doing so. He takes a sadistic pleasure in watching his friend suffer: “I liked to see them hurt Cohen” (Hemingway 152). The attacks Jake and his friends direct at Cohen are misplaced displays of self-loathing. By tearing down a vulnerable target, they seek to bolster their own masculinity and assuage their insecurities, all of which find their expression in relation to Brett. As a sexually desirable woman, she serves as the focal point for the male characters’ desperate need to prove their masculinity. In a sense, she is the “prize” for which they are competing.
To be sure, Cohen’s transparent attempts to win over Brett irritate everyone. But they are far from unique. Jake subjects himself to the same humiliation, unable to accept that Brett will never enter into a romantic relationship with him. In doing so, he emasculates himself and exacerbates his insecurity, repeatedly allowing Brett to take precedence over his pastimes and male friendships. For instance, he eagerly sets aside his fishing trip to meet Brett when she asks for his emotional support. Without so much as a second thought, Jake abandons a worthwhile, therapeutic experience of male bonding, sportsmanship and relaxation in nature to spend time with a woman who makes him miserable. At the fiesta in Pamplona, he sublimates his own desire for Brett by going out of his way to help her find Romero so she can fulfill her impulse to sleep with the bullfighter. Jake is more socially adept than Cohen, so his actions do not seem as obviously pathetic, but the essence of his behavior is the same.
Despite vastly different temperaments and life experiences, both characters are driven by the same insecurities are not as simple as they first appear. Critics who point to Robert Cohen as an archetype of traditional, romantic values in a sea of post-World War I apathy are only seeing part of the picture. He pays lip service to old-fashioned ideals that have ceased to apply, but beneath all of that sentiment is a man who is just as lost, living a life that is just as meaningless as those of the other characters. His romantic pretensions are but futile attempt to give life purpose by turning it into a romance novel.
Jake deals with his lack of values by taking refuge in false apathy, but it is clear to the reader that he is only feigning indifference to avoid dealing with his problems. To admit that he cares would require confronting his post-war emasculation (figurative and literal), which he is incapable of. Jake aptly represents the attitude of the Lost Generation. His seemingly carefree lifestyle is really a form of self-denial, a distraction from the psychological wounds inflicted by a brutal war. However, try as they might, Jake and others like him cannot shake the feeling of dissatisfaction that comes with such a lifestyle. Bursts of humanity shine through the alcohol-facilitated wall of apathy they have erected for themselves. As much as Jake tries to deny his humanity, it is clear that he and his friends, Robert Cohen included, will never be content until they embrace it along with all of its implications. Works Cited
Bishop, John Peale. "An Homage to Hemingway." New Republic 89.1145 11 Nov. 39-42. The New Republic Archive. Web. 5 Jun 2011.
Cowley, Malcolm. "Hemingway and the Hero." New Republic 111.23 4 Dec. 754-758. The New Republic Archive. Web. 5 Jun 2011.
Hemingway, Ernest. The Sun Also Rises. Scribner Book Company, 2006. Print.
Kaye, Jeremy. "The "Whine" of Jewish Manhood: Re-Reading Hemingway's Anti-Semitism, Reimagining Robert Cohen." Hemingway Review 25.2 Spring 2006. 44-62. Literature Online. Web. 10 Jun 2011.
