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The Sun Also Rises Epub

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The Sun Also Rises: The Hemingway Library Edition (Hemingway Library Edition series) by Ernest Hemingway. Read online, or download in secure EPUB. New York: Modern Library, [introd. ], pages, PS E37S8 A Farewell to Arms is a semi-autobiographical novel written by Ernest Hemingway which describes the experience of an American volunteer serving in the.

Cohn was sitting there. Frances was dancing. Braddocks brought up somebody and introduced him as Robert Prentiss. He was from New York by way of Chicago, and was a rising new novelist.

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He had some sort of an English accent. I asked him to have a drink. I got up and walked over toward the dancing-floor. Braddocks followed me.

Braddocks looked out on the floor where Georgette was dancing in the arms of the tall, dark one, called Lett. Cohn came up. You seem all worked up over something? She stood holding the glass and I saw Robert Cohn looking at her. He looked a great deal as his compatriot must have looked when he saw the promised land.

Cohn, of course, was much younger. But he had that look of eager, deserving expectation.

Brett was damned good-looking. She started all that. She was built with curves like the hull of a racing yacht, and you missed none of it with that wool jersey. Brett laughed. Look at Frances there, and Jo. Brett smiled at him. We were dancing to the accordion and some one was playing the banjo. It was hot and I felt happy. We passed close to Georgette dancing with another one of them. We left the floor and I took my coat off a hanger on the wall and put it on. Brett stood by the bar.

Cohn was talking to her. I stopped at the bar and asked them for an envelope. The patronne found one. I took a fifty-franc note from my pocket, put it in the envelope, sealed it, and handed it to the patronne. So early? We started out the door. Cohn was still talking to Brett. She said good night and took my arm. Outside in the street we looked for a taxi.

We stood against the tall zinc bar and did not talk and looked at each other. The waiter came and said the taxi was outside. Brett pressed my hand hard.

I gave the waiter a franc and we went out. I told the driver to go to the Parc Montsouris, and got in, and slammed the door. Brett was leaning back in the corner, her eyes closed. I sat beside her. The cab started with a jerk.

The taxi went up the hill, passed the lighted square, then on into the dark, still climbing, then levelled out onto a dark street behind St. Etienne du Mont, went smoothly down the asphalt, passed the trees and the standing bus at the Place de la Contrescarpe, then turned onto the cobbles of the Rue Mouffetard. There were lighted bars and late open shops on each side of the street.

We were sitting apart and we jolted close together going down the old street. Her head was back. I saw her face in the lights from the open shops, then it was dark, then I saw her face clearly as we came out on the Avenue des Gobelins. The street was torn up and men were working on the car-tracks by the light of acetylene flares.

The street was dark again and I kissed her. Our lips were tight together and then she turned away and pressed against the corner of the seat, as far away as she could get. Her head was down.

You must know. Oh, darling, please understand! She was sitting up now. My arm was around her and she was leaning back against me, and we were quite calm. She was looking into my eyes with that way she had of looking that made you wonder whether she really saw out of her own eyes.

She looked as though there were nothing on earth she would not look at like that, and really she was afraid of so many things. She had been looking into my eyes all the time. Her eyes had different depths, sometimes they seemed perfectly flat. Now you could see all the way into them. I never think about it. It seemed like a hell of a joke. Chaps never know anything, do they? I was pretty well through with the subject. At one time or another I had probably considered it from most of its various angles, including the one that certain injuries or imperfections are a subject of merriment while remaining quite serious for the person possessing them.

We were sitting now like two strangers. On the right was the Parc Montsouris. The restaurant where they have the pool of live trout and where you can sit and look out over the park was closed and dark. The driver leaned his head around. Brett looked straight ahead. On the Boulevard Raspail, with the lights of Montparnasse in sight, Brett said: When the taxi stopped I got out and paid.

Brett came out putting on her hat. She gave me her hand as she stepped down. Her hand was shaky. Inside, against the bar and at tables, were most of the crowd who had been at the dance. Braddocks called to me from a table. That girl of yours got in a frightful row. A corking row. She was rather splendid, you know. I say it was a row. Not a bad-looking girl. Wonderful command of the idiom. Do stay and have a drink. I said good night to Brett at the bar. The count was buying champagne.

I went out onto the sidewalk and walked down toward the Boulevard St.

Michel, passed the tables of the Rotonde, still crowded, looked across the Street at the Dome, its tables running out to the edge of the pavement. Some one waved at me from a table, I did not see who it was and went on.

I wanted to get home.

The sun also rises

The Boulevard Montparnasse was deserted. There was a faded purple wreath leaning against the base. I stopped and read the inscription: He looked very fine, Marshal Ney in his top-boots, gesturing with his sword among the green new horse-chestnut leaves. My flat was just across the street, a little way down the Boulevard St.

I wished her good night and went up-stairs. There were two letters and some papers. I looked at them under the gas-light in the dining-room. The letters were from the States. One was a bank statement. I wrote this on the back of the statement. The other letter was a wedding announcement. Aloysius Kirby announce the marriage of their daughter Katherine—I knew neither the girl nor the man she was marrying.

They must be circularizing the town. It was a funny name. I felt Sure I could remember anybody with a name like Aloysius. It was a good Catholic name. There was a crest on the announcement. Like Zizi the Greek duke. And that count. The count was funny. Brett had a title, too. Lady Ashley. To hell with Brett. To hell with you, Lady Ashley. I lit the lamp beside the bed, turned off the gas, and opened the wide windows. The bed was far back from the windows, and I sat with the windows open and undressed by the bed.

Outside a night train, running on the street-car tracks, went by carrying vegetables to the markets. They were noisy at night when you could not sleep.

Undressing, I looked at myself in the mirror of the big armoire beside the bed. That was a typically French way to furnish a room.

Practical, too, I suppose. Of all the ways to be wounded. I suppose it was funny. I put on my pajamas and got into bed. I had the two bull-fight papers, and I took their wrappers off.

One was orange. The other yellow. They would both have the same news, so whichever I read first would spoil the other. I read it all the way through, including the Petite Correspondance and the Cornigrams.

I blew out the lamp. Perhaps I would be able to sleep. My head started to work. The old grievance. Well, it was a rotten way to be wounded and flying on a joke front like the Italian. In the Italian hospital we were going to form a society. It had a funny name in Italian. I wonder what became of the others, the Italians. The next building was the Padiglione Zonda. There was a statue of Ponte, or maybe it was Zonda.

That was where the liaison colonel came to visit me. That was funny. That was about the first funny thing. I was all bandaged up. But they had told him about it.

Then he made that wonderful speech: I would like to have it illuminated to hang in the office. He never laughed. He was putting himself in my place, I guess.

Che mala fortuna! I never used to realize it, I guess. I try and play it along and just not make trouble for people. Well, people were that way. To hell with people.

The Catholic Church had an awfully good way of handling all that. Good advice, anyway. Not to think about it. Oh, it was swell advice. Try and take it sometime. Try and take it. I lay awake thinking and my mind jumping around. I was thinking about Brett and my mind stopped jumping around and started to go in sort of smooth waves. Then all of a sudden I started to cry. Then after a while it was better and I lay in bed and listened to the heavy trams go by and way down the street, and then I went to sleep.

I woke up.

There was a row going on outside. I listened and I thought I recognized a voice. I put on a dressing-gown and went to the door. The concierge was talking down-stairs. She was very angry. I heard my name and called down the stairs. What kind of a dirty business at this time of night! She says she must see you. Half asleep I had been sure it was Georgette. She could not have known my address.

Brett came up the stairs. I saw she was quite drunk. I looked at the clock. It was half-past four. Just left the count. He brought me here. The count? Oh, rather. I rather think so, you know. Deserves to be, anyhow. Owns a chain of sweetshops in the States. Something like that. Linked them all up. Told me a little about it. Damned interesting. Oh, quite.

No doubt. One can always tell. Greek, you know. Rotten painter. I rather liked the count. He just brought me here now. Offered me ten thousand dollars to go to Biarritz with him. How much is that in pounds? He was awfully nice about it. Told him I knew too many people in Biarritz. I had only sipped my brandy and soda. I took a long drink. Told him I knew too many people in Cannes.

Monte Carlo. Told him I knew too many people in Monte Carlo. Told him I knew too many people everywhere. Quite true, too. So I asked him to bring me here.

She looked at me, her hand on the table, her glass raised. True, too. He was damn nice about it. Wants to drive us out to dinner to-morrow night. Like to go? Damned silly idea. Want to get dressed and come down? And a chauffeur in livery. Going to drive me around and have breakfast in the Bois. Dozen bottles of Mumms. Tempt you? We kissed good night and Brett shivered. We kissed again on the stairs and as I called for the cordon the concierge muttered something behind her door.

I went back upstairs and from the open window watched Brett walking up the street to the big limousine drawn up to the curb under the arc-light. She got in and it started off. I turned around. On the table was an empty glass and a glass half-full of brandy and soda. I took them both out to the kitchen and poured the half-full glass down the sink. I turned off the gas in the dining-room, kicked off my slippers sitting on the bed, and got into bed.

This was Brett, that I had felt like crying about. Then I thought of her walking up the street and stepping into the car, as I had last seen her, and of course in a little while I felt like hell again. It is awfully easy to be hard-boiled about everything in the daytime, but at night it is another thing. In the morning I walked down the Boulevard to the Rue Soufflot for coffee and brioche. It was a fine morning. The horse-chestnut trees in the Luxembourg gardens were in bloom. There was the pleasant early-morning feeling of a hot day.

I read the papers with the coffee and then smoked a cigarette. The flower-women were coming up from the market and arranging their daily stock.

Students went by going up to the law school, or down to the Sorbonne. The Boulevard was busy with trams and people going to work. I got on an S bus and rode down to the Madeleine, standing on the back platform. I passed the man with the jumping frogs and the man with the boxer toys. I stepped aside to avoid walking into the thread with which his girl assistant manipulated the boxers. She was standing looking away, the thread in her folded hands.

The man was urging two tourists to buy. Three more tourists had stopped and were watching. All along people were going to work. It felt pleasant to be going to work.

I walked across the avenue and turned in to my office. The President of the Council was in Lyons making a speech, or, rather he was on his way back. Several people asked questions to hear themselves talk and there were a couple of questions asked by news service men who wanted to know the answers. There was no news. The Dingo. I banged on the glass.

The Sun Also Rises

The chauffeur stopped. Woolsey shook his head. I went to the office in the elevator. Robert Cohn was waiting for me. The sommelier brought the beer, tall, beaded on the outside of the stems, and cold. She likes a lot of people around. She seems to be absolutely fine and straight. Have you known her a long time? Cohn smiled again and sat down. He seemed glad to sit down. I never mean it when I say nasty things.

God help you, I thought. I could feel Cohn wanted to bring up Brett again, but I held him off it. We talked about one thing and another, and I left him to come to the office. She was not there, so I sat down and wrote some letters. They were not very good letters but I hoped their being on Crillon stationery would help them. Brett did not turn up, so about quarter to six I went down to the bar and had a Jack Rose with George the barman.

Crossing the Seine I saw a string of barges being towed empty down the current, riding high, the bargemen at the sweeps as they came toward the bridge. The river looked nice. It was always pleasant crossing bridges in Paris.

The taxi rounded the statue of the inventor of the semaphore engaged in doing same, and turned up the Boulevard Raspail, and I sat back to let that part of the ride pass. The Boulevard Raspail always made dull riding. It was like a certain stretch on the P.

I suppose it is some association of ideas that makes those dead places in a journey. There are other streets in Paris as ugly as the Boulevard Raspail. It is a street I do not mind walking down at all. But I cannot stand to ride along it. Perhaps I had read something about it once. That was the way Robert Cohn was about all of Paris. I wondered where Cohn got that incapacity to enjoy Paris.

Possibly from Mencken.

Mencken hates Paris, I believe. So many young men get their likes and dislikes from Mencken. The taxi stopped in front of the Rotonde. Ten years from now it will probably be the Dome. It was near enough, anyway. I walked past the sad tables of the Rotonde to the Select. There were a few people inside at the bar, and outside, alone, sat Harvey Stone. He had a pile of saucers in front of him, and he needed a shave. I figured rapidly back in my mind. It was three days ago that Harvey had won two hundred francs from me shaking poker dice in the New York Bar.

I want to stay in my own room. He says some pretty funny things. Last time I had dinner with him we talked about Hoffenheimer. What would you rather do if you could do anything you wanted? What comes into your head first. No matter how silly it is.

Harvey Stone laughed. See you later, Jake. He walked out and up the street. I watched him crossing the street through the taxis, small, heavy, slowly sure of himself in the traffic.

The sort of healthy conceit that he had when he returned from America early in the spring was gone. Then he had been sure of his work, only with these personal longings for adventure. Now the sureness was gone. Somehow I feel I have not shown Robert Cohn clearly.

The reason is that until he fell in love with Brett, I never heard him make one remark that would, in any way, detach him from other people. He was nice to watch on the tennis-court, he had a good body, and he kept it in shape; he handled his cards well at bridge, and he had a funny sort of undergraduate quality about him.

If he were in a crowd nothing he said stood out. He wore what used to be called polo shirts at school, and may be called that still, but he was not professionally youthful. I do not believe he thought about his clothes much. Externally he had been formed at Prii1ceton.

Internally he had been moulded by the two women who had trained him. He had a nice, boyish sort of cheerfulness that had never been trained out of him, and I probably have not brought it out. He loved to win at tennis. He probably loved to win as much as Lenglen, for instance.

On the other hand, he was not angry at being beaten. When he fell in love with Brett his tennis game went all to pieces. People beat him who had never had a chance with him.

Fiction: Ernest Hemingway

He was very nice about it. Frances Clyne was coming toward us from across the street. She was a very tall girl who walked with a great deal of movement. She waved and smiled. We watched her cross the street. Are you here?

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No one keeps theirs, nowadays. I ought to know better. How are you, Jake, anyway? I want to talk with you. Would you come over with me to the Dome? Come on, Jake. We crossed the Boulevard Montparnasse and sat down at a table. I knew it would happen when he went to New York.

Two years ago I could have married anybody I wanted, down at Cannes. All the old ones that wanted to marry somebody chic and settle down were crazy about me. She looked at me very brightly. I could have had alimony, but I got the divorce the quickest way. I ought to have known better.

I leave him alone. I know what he wants. I know it. He wants to have a big triumph this fall all by himself. We got up from the table—they had never brought us a drink— and started across the street toward the Select, where Cohn sat smiling at us from behind the marble-topped table.

Everybody will know it soon enough. I only wanted to give Jake a decent version. Oh, Jake! I forgot to tell you. But I made him give me two hundred. I do not know how people could say such terrible things to Robert Cohn. There are people to whom you could not say insulting things. They give you a feeling that the world would be destroyed, would actually be destroyed before your eyes, if you said certain things.

But here was Cohn taking it all. Here it was, all going on right before me, and I did not even feel an impulse to try and stop it.

And this was friendly joking to what went on later. And how is your dear mother? She put all her money into French war bonds. Yes, she did.

Probably the only person in the world that did. Poor Frances has had a most unfortunate experience. She turned to me with that terribly bright smile. It was very satisfactory to her to have an audience for this. Perfectly my own fault. Should I tell him? Robert had a little secretary on the magazine. Just the sweetest little thing in the world, and he thought she was wonderful, and then I came along and he thought I was pretty wonderful, too.

All to please me. He thought I was pretty fine, then. Not even platonic. Nothing at all, really. It was just that she was so nice. And he did that just to please me. Well, I suppose that we that live by the sword shall perish by the sword. You want to remember that for your next book, Robert. Well, I hope he gets something frightfully interesting. Let me tell you something. Try not to. Just try and be calm. We all ought to make sacrifices for literature. Look at me.

All for literature. We must all help young writers. Are you, Robert? Still, I suppose that is young for a great writer. Look at Hardy. Look at Anatole France. He just died a little while ago. Some of his French friends told him. Do you think he ever had to go and look for material? I wonder if he cried, too?

Like at Lourdes. Do you want to hear, Robert? I wonder why I never thought about it. She was his mistress for over two years. See how it is? Where are you going, Jake? Cohn looked up as I went in. His face was white. Why did he sit there? Why did he keep on taking it like that? As I stood against the bar looking out I could see them through the window.

Frances was talking on to him, smiling brightly, looking into his face each time she asked: Perhaps she said something else. I told the barman I did not want anything to drink and went out through the side door. As I went out the door I looked back through the two thicknesses of glass and saw them sitting there.

She was still talking to him. I went down a side street to the Boulevard Raspail. A taxi came along and I got in and gave the driver the address of my flat. As I started up the stairs the concierge knocked on the glass of the door of her lodge, and as I stopped she came out. She had some letters and a telegram.

She was with a gentleman.

The Sun Also Rises

It was the one who was here last night. In the end I find she is very nice. He was never here before. He was very large. Very, very large. She was very nice.

Very, very nice. Last night I found her not so gentille. Last night I formed another idea of her. But listen to what I tell you. She is of very good family. It is a thing you can see. And that lady, that lady there is some one.

The concierge, before she became a concierge, had owned a drink-selling concession at the Paris race-courses. Her life-work lay in the pelouse, but she kept an eye on the people of the pesage, and she took great pride in telling me which of my guests were well brought up, which were of good family, who were sportsmen, a French word pronounced with the accent on the men.

The only trouble was that people who did not fall into any of those three categories were very liable to be told there was no one home, chez Barnes. One of my friends, an extremely underfed-looking painter, who was obviously to Madame Duzinell neither well brought up, of good family, nor a sportsman, wrote me a letter asking if I could get him a pass to get by the concierge so he could come up and see me occasionally in the evenings.

I went up to the flat wondering what Brett had done to the concierge. I put the mail on the table, went back to the bedroom, undressed and had a shower. I was rubbing down when I heard the door-bell pull.

I put on a bathrobe and slippers and went to the door. It was Brett. Back of her was the count. He was holding a great bunch of roses. It was very late. I say, Jake, do we get a drink? While I dressed I heard Brett put down glasses and then a siphon, and then heard them talking. I dressed slowly, sitting on the bed. I felt tired and pretty rotten. Brett came in the room, a glass in her hand, and sat on the bed. She was gone out of the room. I lay face down on the bed.

I was having a bad time. I heard them talking but I did not listen. Brett came in and sat on the bed. I did not want to see her. Not with my own true love. He should be back. It means any amount to him. We went into the dining-room.

I took up the brandy bottle and poured Brett a drink and one for myself. There was a ring at the bell-pull. I went to the door and there was the count.

Behind him was the chauffeur carrying a basket of champagne. Most of the time it costs you money. The count was looking at Brett across the table under the gaslight. She was smoking a cigarette and flicking the ashes on the rug. She saw me notice it. I found some ash-trays and spread them around. The chauffeur came up with a bucket full of salted ice. Wait down in the car. He took out a heavy pigskin cigar-case and offered it to me.

He lit the cigar, puffed at it, looking across the table at Brett. You got class all over you. You got it. I never joke people. Joke people and you make enemies. Except Jake here. The count reached down and twirled the bottles in the shiny bucket. When you talk to me you never finish your sentences at all. I brought a towel and he wiped the bottle dry and held it up. The wine is better but it would have been too hard to cool.

I put out the glasses. You lose the taste. The count poured very carefully. Now you enjoy that slowly, and then you can get drunk. I have been around very much.

I have been around a very great deal. I dare say Jake here has seen as much as you have. My dear, I am sure Mr. Barnes has seen a lot. I have seen a lot, too. And I have got arrow wounds. Have you ever seen arrow wounds? The count stood up, unbuttoned his vest, and opened his shirt. He pulled up the undershirt onto his chest and stood, his chest black, and big stomach muscles bulging under the light.

Below the line where his ribs stopped were two raised white welts. Barnes, it is because I have lived very much that now I can enjoy everything so well. You must get to know the values.

We drank three bottles of the champagne and the count left the basket in my kitchen. We dined at a restaurant in the Bois. It was a good dinner. So did wine. The count was in fine form during the meal. So was Brett. It was a good party. However, note that many search engines truncate at a much shorter size, about characters. Your suggestion will be processed as soon as possible. Ernest Miller Hemingway July 21, — July 2, was an American novelist, short story writer, and journalist.

His economical and understated style had a strong influence on 20th-century fiction, while his life of adventure and his public image influenced later generations. Hemingway produced most of his work between the mids and the mids, and won the Nobel Prize in Literature in He published seven novels, six short story collections, and two non-fiction works. Additional works, including three novels, four short story collections, and three non-fiction works, were published posthumously.

Many of his works are considered classics of American literature. Available Formats. This book is in the public domain in Canada, and is made available to you DRM-free.

You may do whatever you like with this book, but mostly we hope you will read it. Here at FadedPage and our companion site Distributed Proofreaders Canada , we pride ourselves on producing the best ebooks you can find. Please tell us about any errors you have found in this book, or in the information on this page about this book.

The Sun Also Rises. Please enter a suggested description.But it seemed to fit Cohn. The daughter of the house came down-stairs as we went in. Bill Gorton arrived, put up a couple of days at the flat and went off to Vienna.

To hell with people. I have been actively advocating that ALL librarians be sacked in Islington in London because they are just communists hiding in there inciting violence on facebook and bugging me and my friends with their intolerance!

I like e-books. His face was white. He got the first idea out of a book, and I suppose the second came out of a book too. You are a lost generation In the first chapters, Cohn dominates the narration.