Ernest Hemingway’s Islands in the Stream

 

Hem 1This Really Like This Book podcast scripts catch-up is about Ernest Hemingway’s Islands in the Stream. He is a giant of American literature, and of masculine writing. He wrote men’s books about manly subjects: war, bullfighting, deep sea fishing. He won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1954. Islands in the Stream was published after his death, in 1970. It was put together from three fragments of novels found in his bank vault in Havana after his death. They were intended by Hemingway to form a larger work, but his widow and literary executor put the pieces together. You’d never think it was cobbled together at all. It’s a stupendous novel, and I loved it.

Hem 2It’s also chillingly tense. Hemingway’s narrative style is famous: he called it the iceberg technique, or something like that, because all the work was done below the surface of the words. So we have plain, pared-down prose, no words wasted, nothing exuberant or decorative, which gives the rare instances of enthusiasm, passion, pleasure, etc, real power, because they stand alone without fuss. The effect is similar to encountering a large rock in the middle of a desert plain. It gives the impression of being bigger than anything else around, because it’s the only one of its kind, but if it were surrounded by equally large-sized rocks, we wouldn’t pay it any particular attention. The effect of such restraint in the writing is that we really feel the undercurrents of emotion. More importantly, we can feel the stuff that’s not being said, and the approach of terrible things a long way off. The tension mounts, and it just keeps on mounting. But because Hemingway’s writing is so controlled, you can feel sure that the catastrophe won’t be sprung on you out of the blue. There will be warnings, and you will have to wait for the warning to happen for the awful, or dangerous, or risky thing to happen. When it does happen, it’s a relief, because now we can get on with it, and not sit there imagining ‘he’s going to kill them’, or ‘they’re going to be washed overboard’, and so on.

Hem 3Tension is a peculiar thing in a novel. If you think about it rationally, the reader can put a book down at any time during a tense-making episode, and it will wait for you. Nothing will change the outcome on the page. You can change how you respond to the outcome by being in a different frame of mind, or wait to have the right kind of time to devote to reading it. You can go to sleep and read the resolution of the tension with a clear mind and full attention on a different day. So what is it that makes us succumb to the tyranny of the plot and keep reading past midnight, or miss a bus stop, in thrall to the story? In Hemingway, I think it’s the hypnosis of the small plain words and the steady encroachment of story and character in tiny, incremental steps. He likes the character, and we like the character, so we don’t want anything bad to happen to that person. Emotional investment in a character binds us to their fate. The more an author encourages us to feel good about a person, the less we are likely to not be too bothered if that person does something horrible, or has something horrible happen to them. So it’s in an author’s interests to make the readers feel invested in some way – good or bad – in the characters so the book will be read. This will work for the situation too, if the situation is bigger or more interesting that the people.

Hem 4So, back to the novel. Only one of the characters in Islands in the Stream populates all three of its parts: Thomas Hudson, a famous artist, a former habitué of 1920s Paris, where he lived with his first wife and son Tom. Now he lives on Bimini, an island of the Bahamas, 50 miles off Florida. He paints, and he drinks. This is apparently not too much, but the amount he and some of the other men sink daily, often starting at breakfast, made me blench. I’m not a spirits drinker, but they certainly were. Hemingway wrote this novel in 1950-51, and it certainly has a feel of Ian Fleming about it, with the details of men’s lives, and how they saw women. Hemingway and Fleming wrote with detailed precision about what their characters ate and wore, and the drinks descriptions are basically recipes without quantities. Thomas Hudson – and here’s an interesting thing, which I’m sure Hemingway critics have explained to their own satisfaction, but it was new to me – Thomas Hudson, when referred to by the narrative voice, is always called ‘Thomas Hudson’. Not Thomas, not Hudson, always the two names together. When he’s referred to by characters, its Hudson or Tom or Tommy, but the narrative voice sets itself apart with the formality of the full name. There is another Tom, his son, called Young Tom or Tommy at different times, but often just Tom. But the painter is given his full name, as if he were a brand of rum.

Hem 5Thomas Hudson lives on Bimini in his house. He has a cook / major-domo / housekeeper and trusted friend and native Biminian called Eddy, and a houseboy called Joseph. The novel opens when Thomas Hudson has finished work for the day, and spends the evening drinking with friends on the quay, where things get a little out of hand, and there’s a fight. His friend Roger Davis, a novelist and screenwriter, comes back to Hudson’s house to gets his wounds doctored and to sleep, and to stay, since he needs to find quiet to start writing again. And, of course, the boys are coming: Hudson’s three sons, Tom, and David and Andrew, by his second wife. The five of them have a wonderful summer on the beach and in and out of the water. This novel is apparently praised for its nature descriptions: it certainly has tremendous descriptions of fishing, sharks, and eating. Some visitors to the island arrive, one of them being a girl who’s come to find Roger, which he is very glad about. That’s the last we see of him, because he takes her off to Hudson’s ranch in Idaho, to start writing again.

Hem 6This is set a few years later in wartime, in Cuba, which isn’t very far south of the Bahamas, in Hudson’s house in the countryside outside Havana. There he has a vast number of cats and dogs, and three or four staff to keep the place running in his absence. He is absent a fair bit, because he’s converted his boat into a survey vessel for the US Navy, and he’s scouring the Caribbean coastline looking for U-boats. When this episode opens he’s just come back from an exhausting trip, and his favourite cat, Boise, is ecstatic at Hudson being home again. Hudson spends most of this section of the novel drinking, or fretting about whether the cats are eating enough. Boise eats fried eggs, and accepts a little champagne. Hudson tells stories in a bar to Honest Lil, an old prostitute friend, and allows himself to recall some very exciting episodes from his past with a princess on a boat going through the Corinth Canal. This is Lil’s ploy to make him forget a recent sadness, and to get him warmed up by recalling the princess’s sexual appetites. But out of the blue, a woman no-one expected to see walks into the bar, and Hudson and she have an ecstatic reunion, which fills Hudson’s slightly fuzzy mind with unfettered joy. It probably isn’t joyful for Honest Lil, because we don’t see her again. The drinking in Havana is prodigious, I lost count of the frozen double daiquiris that Hudson consumed. But just as we’re thinking, at last, he can be happy again, just for a bit, Hudson gets an emergency summons from the Navy and he has to go back to sea.

Hem 7The third part of the novel is spent largely at sea, hunting for some German seamen who escaped their wrecked U-boat, and made the mistake of massacring some islanders when they stole their turtle boat. Hudson’s ship has a crew of irregular sailors, mainly smugglers and fishermen and a discharged Marine, as well as a Navy man who has been given to Hudson to make sure his ship stays in radio contact with naval authorities on Havana. This is one of the thin threads attaching the third part of the novel to the war: another thread concerns Tommy the younger, and other people in Hudson’s life who are also serving in the war. I did wonder when reading this section, why did Thomas Hudson not go straight into the army or navy? Why did he become an irregular pirate for hire? Could any of this stuff have really happened? It’s plausible enough as a novel for me to not want to bother checking out the history: the romance of the plot is quite satisfying enough.

I can’t see this free-living and hard-drinking artist and big-game fisherman submitting to uniform and military rules, and possibly he was too old as well. Instead, we get a truly exotic idea of Cuba and the Floridian islands, the Bahamas, all of the Caribbean, as a modern refuge for terrible pirates who prey on the locals and kill ruthlessly. Islands in the Stream is very Dr No, very sun-kissed and hard-drinking, and very, very hard-man American hero. It reminded me strongly of the Commando comic books I read as a child, where the war was simply a setting for personal heroics and dramatic tension involving guns and the occasional guttural swear word. As a story of eight men cooped up in a boat together in the heat, getting frustrated by not being able to catch their prey, and feeling just a little bit edgy about one or two of the others, this last part of the novel  should glue you to the very last page, no matter what else you should be attending to.

 

 

 

The glory of unmarried freedom in Paris, in Elaine Dundy’s The Dud Avocado

The new edition by Virago
The new edition by Virago, featuring the evening dress!

I used to own Elaine Dundy’s The Dud Avocado in my twenties, but I don’t think I ever read it properly, and it disappeared from sight in a house move. Oh how foolish I was, because – now that I’ve paid it proper attention  – this stunning classic is superbly written and fizzing with good-natured life. I re-bought it last week, started to read it one evening and barely got a decent night’s sleep (much like the heroine), because I was enraptured by the charm, the vim, the verve, the splendid chaotic mess of Sally Jay Gorce’s life as a very young thing in Paris in the 1950s, an American girl on a regular allowance and definitely fancy-free.

This young madam conducts her affairs in an alcoholic haze in bars and restaurants on the Left Bank among Americans and the French. She’s not exactly promiscuous, but has a rather startling way of using her freedom to sleep with whoever she wants that is, so not like the lifestyle of, say, a Barbara Pym character from the same period. She dyes her hair, loses her pearls, gets so behind with her laundry that she has to wear an evening dress during the day, waiting for daywear to return to her closet. She’s like Lorelei Lee of Gentlemen Prefer Blondes: delicious, wide-eyed, naïve and an enchanting survivor. She’s like Brett Ashley in The Sun Also Rises, with an unequalled appetite for drink, joyous flirtation and dancing. Her year in Paris is packed with incident and exuberance, and my goodness, are we all the better for it.

Vintage suggestion, and very accurate too, since the novel begins, and spends several episodes at, a Paris cafe table
Vintage suggestion, and very accurate too, since the novel begins, and spends several episodes at, a Paris cafe table

This novel is so much more enjoyable to read than a Muriel Spark, or a Doris Lessing (my obstinate bêtes noires). It’s not remotely worthy, or learned, or drearily interior, or literarily written, and has no political credibility whatsoever. It’s sheer pleasure, a 1950s Paris fairytale. Naturally all this fun can’t last forever. There are dark elements around every corner, behind every insouciant invitation. The men simply can’t understand Sally Jay’s total refusal to get domestic. Her former lover lays plots to make her miserable. Her dear friend Larry tries to pimp her to a rich Canadian. She thinks she’s been hired as an actress, but is actually just an English coach for a teenage bull-fighter (yet more echoes of Lady Ashley and Hemingway). She loses her passport, which the American Embassy seems unaccountably angry about. At least her allowance from dear eccentric Uncle Roger keeps coming, because without that she’d starve and lose all her possessions.

Sally Jay’s total unconcern with cooking or cleaning is powerfully endearing. When she tries to tackle catering for the first time (‘Which one is the oven and how do you light it?’), because her poor artist lover looks so miserable at not being able to have friends round for dinner, they all have to help Sally Jay with the cooking, and even then the bread is forgotten in the shopping bag (I am sure that Katharine Whitehorn pinched this episode for her 1960s classic Cooking in a Bedsitter). I really liked this refusal to go domestic, because it feels completely revolutionary for a 1950s novel about a woman. But nothing good lasts forever. In the end, Sally Jay may have found the love of her life, because she actually entertains the idea of marriage. Cooking is not mentioned as part of this deal, of course. The unspoken drudgery of housekeeping never is at the pre-betrothal stage, but at least she’s had a brave shot at living without it, before having to grow up.

My favourite vintage cover: reeking with period symbolism
My favourite vintage cover: reeking with period symbolism

Note on the author: Elaine Dundy wrote this novel after marrying Kenneth Tynan, the famously sclerotic British theatre critic and opinionated knowitall. He’s name-checked in the novel, and I wonder how much else is borrowed from their life together?

I’ve reviewed their daughter Tracy’s memoir, Wear and Tear, as well.

Now posting on Vulpes Libris: the drinking in Hemingway

Hemingway 3Over on Vulpes Libris we’re having a Drinking Week. My contribution is a little something on how Ernest Hemingway wrote about alcohol.

The most powerful descriptions of drinking in the alcoholic sense that I can remember are in Alan Warner’s Morvern Callar, which turned my sensibilities so much I couldn’t finish the novel. I know it’s good, I just don’t want to read any more of it. I expect I’d have the same experience reading Jack Kerouac or William Burroughs, though, as with Warner, the characters would be taking pills as well as opening bottles. But when did ‘drinking’ become a synonym for ‘drinking alcohol’? Is there a different word for the ingestion of liquid that alters your perceptions and reactions, rather than simply drinking to ease thirst, or assuage hunger (as with milk, or a good Hoegaarden witte)?

Back to Hemingway: the drinking in The Sun Also Rises is prodigious, but reaches a ludicrous extent in Islands in the Stream. As if his men (and they mostly are men, in the latter novel) live to drink, and drinking is how they see the world. The moments when they are not drinking, are when they’re working, or fishing. There is nothing else.