Utah State University
From the SelectedWorks of Gene Washington
2013
HEMINGWAY AND NORMAL FALLIBILITY
gene washington, Utah State University
Available at: http://works.bepress.com/gene_washington/112/
HEMINGWAY’S THEATER OF MORTALITY
Epitaphs are probably of an age with the art of writing.
Samuel Johnson, “An Essay on Epitaphs.”
Death, being a common theme in Hemingway’s fiction and letters, it quite
natural to find scholars describing his writings with terms like “elegy (“eiegiac”) and
“epitaph.” These terms range over both the whole of his work, and aspects within
individual works. Beegel, for example, comments that “Virtually all of Hemingway’s
writing is elegiac in tone, continually confronting loss and probing its pain….”
(Beegel 57; my emphasis). Mellow characterizes a Hemingway letter to The New
Masses (14 February 1939) as an “elegy” (316). Zuber describes Hemingway
reading his obituaries in a hotel in Nairobi and “smirking at his epitaphs recurring
theme, which was that he had always hunted death”(7; my emphasis). Bond and
Baker both find an analogy between the form of an “epitaph” and the structure of a
Hemingway story. “The Gambler The Nun and the Radio,” Bond claims “moves
toward the economy of an epitaph” For Baker, the closing soliloquy of Harry
Morgan’s wife (in To Have and To Have Not) is “Harry’s personal epitaph” (212).
So what is the difference between an “elegy” and an “epitaph?” Or, by
semantic extension, the “elegiac’ and the “epitaphic?” Are they correctly used in
commentaries on Hemingway’s? Or does their use in the scholarship, by exhibiting
generic confusion, cause a misreading of Hemingway? Then there is the more
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positive side of the topic. Is there an area of scholarship on Hemingway where the
distinction between “elegy” and “epitaph” might prove useful?
Here then we are as much interested in the “differences” in meaning and use
with the two terms as we are in their intrinsic qualities. And it should be
understood, at the outset, that we are talking mostly about “textual epitaphs,” not
those necessarily inscribed on tombstones. Textual epitaphs, by definition, are ones
“transferred,” sometimes with modification, from their origins in cemeteries or
monuments in public places to the pages of a text. By extension, this can come to
stand as words inserted in a text to stand for an epitaph for a fictional character. The
words may exist as “purely literary efforts never meant to grace a gravestone”
(Guthke 27) Or, in other words inserted in a text in lieu of an epitaph for someone
who never existed (Prendergast 38-40; Rosenthal 11) We may “find” epitaphs or we
may invent them. Found epitaphs lie upon stone in a graveyard or inscribed on a
monument; invented ones replicate the form and content of a found epitaph but
they appear only in texts.
For understanding Hemingway’s art of the epitaph there is (to my mind) no
real difference between his writing words never meant for a tombstone or words
meant to stand in as an epitaph for someone who never existed. From an existential
point of view both “motives” rely on the (universal?) human need to identify and
remember the dead. This “no difference” stance, at any rate, is the one I try to
maintain in what follows.
As far as we know, Hemingway wrote only one tombstone epitaph, that for
his friend Gene Van Guilder. But did he write textual epitaphs, ones that appear in
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the pages of his texts? If so, where in the texts do they appear? And what purpose
do they have there?
For most scholars of the evolution of the terms the principal difference
between an elegy and an epitaph is the representation of time. Typically, it requires
more time for a reader to read an elegy than an epitaph; and the “message” of an
elegy is more likely to transcends the historical event that called it into being. Long
term mourning is often at stake: The “primary purpose” of an elegy is thus to
present a “psychological working through of mourning” (Newstok 51; Clymer359).
In this, an elegy is much like a sermon. To elegize is to perform a literary act before
or after a death or funeral, notable examples being Gray’s Elegy Written in a
Country Churchyard, Shelley’s Adonias or Milton’s Lycidas. Unlike an epitaph they
are “too long” to be written on a tombstone. (The etymology of “elegy,” legein, or “to
speak” suggests a certain length of time). Elegiac writing appears for Bloomfield, in a
historical context, as a characteristic of a distinct literary movements; namely, as the
“continuing effect of Romanticism…the elegiac mode remains the dominant mode of
modern poetry” (Bloomfield 156)“ Insofar as Hemingway is a modern writer and
insofar as much of his writing approaches the status of poetry, is it too much of a
distension to say that the elegiac mode saturates his narratives?
An epitaph, by contrast with an elegy, plays down temporal presentation in
order to foreground spatial meaning and context. (by its etymology a epitaph is a
written form “upon a tomb” [epi-taphos]) The primary purpose of an epitaph is to
identify a body that is “here”. With an epitaph we are always (usually in graveyard)
in the presence of a corpse or the space where one has been. (When we elegize the
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corpse is usually absent). Moreover, as Mikics points out, the personal address in an
elegy is a “you,” not the third person form of an epitaph (102). For Kay, the basic
distinction between an elegy and an epitaph is “generic separation”: with the former
we are in “association” with “death and a funeral”; with the latter with that in “the
erection of a monument and with a…more conclusive, response to death” (65).
In short, following the lead of the above scholarship, it is incorrect to say, as
the Princeton Encyclopedia of Poetics has it, that the “epitaph is a shortened form of
the elegy” (Newstok 52). The “hereness” of the epitaph, near and above a body or
the space where one has been, is the essential difference—in short, immobility, not
time and movement, dominate the presentation.
Swift’s epitaph, for example, illustrates some of the above signature features
of the epitaph, finality, third person address, “hereness,” the presence of a body and
a message for the reader to carry away:
Hic depositum est Corpus IONATHAN SWIFT S.T.D. Hujus Ecclesiæ
Cathedralis Decani, Ubi sæva Indignatio Ulterius Cor lacerare nequit,
Abi Viator Et imitare, si poteris, Strenuum pro virili Libertatis
Vindicatorem 19º Die Mensis Octobris A.D. 1745 Anno Ætatis 78º.
(Here lies the body of Jonathan Swift, dean of this cathedral. He is
where savage indignation can no longer tear his heart. Go traveler and
imitate, if your can, his strong championing of freedom. Died 19th of
October 1745. Age 78)).
Now please call to mind Frederic Henry’s words about his dead son:
He (Henry’ son) had never been alive. Except in Catherine.
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I’d felt him kick there often enough….I had no religion but
I knew he ought to have been baptized. But what if he never
breathed at all. He hadn’t. He had never been alive….Poor
little kid. I wished the hell I’d been choked like that. No,
I didn’t. Still there would not be all this dying to go
through. Now Catherine would die. That was what you did. You died.
You did not know what it was about. You never had time to
learn (FTA 327).
Here are the “last words” said over Paco in “The Capital of the World”:
The boy Paco had never known about any of this nor about
what all these people would be doing on the next day and on
other days to come He had no idea how they really lived nor
ended. He did not even realize they ended. He died,
as the Spanish phrase has it, full of illusions. He had not had time
In his life to lose any of them, nor even, at the end, to complete
an act of contrition. He had not even had time to be disappointed
in the Garbo picture which disappointed all Madrid for a week (CCS
38).
These passages share qualities with Swift’s (and most other) epitaphs. Note
that the form of address in both is “he”: “he had never been alive…he ought to have
been baptized…what if he never breathed at all….” (FTA); “He had no idea…He
Did not even realize….He died….” (CCS 38) Like Swift’s epitaph, they contains words
denoting finality, “never been alive…he ought to have been…he never breathed….”
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The repetition of words and phrases, “He had not…they ended” (CCS 38). Henry’s
use of the second person gestures, like Swift’s own second person form, “abi” (go),
to any passer-by (or reader); one who is invited to read the words—and, hopefully,
go away a person transformed by the message: “That was what you did. You died.
You did not know what it was about. You never had time to learn.”
There are important differences between Swift’s epitaph and Hemingway’s
epitaphic forms, however. One difference lies in the presence (Swift) of a body (in
southeast corner of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, Dublin) versus the near-by-ness of the
dead (Hemingway). Paco and Henry’s son are, as it where, “in the next room.” The
“he,” as corporeality, is not ”here,” in close proximity with the speakers. With an
epitaph, one is always in a position to “see” the place where the body lies. “Where”
becomes equivalent to “here” (Newstok 51, 56) This aspect is missing from
Hemingway’s representation. Another difference is the heavy use of negation and
repetition in Hemingway. The effect is to “slow down” the delivery of a message, a
message about what one “misses” (or has not “learned”) by dying young. Swift’s
epitaph, which he wrote himself (with the exception of his date of death) delivers a
much more positive message.
The differences can be explained as those between the context of a textual
epitaph (Hemingway) versus that of the “tombstone” epitaph (Swift). But much
more needs to be said about epitaphs and epitaphic forms before we can trust our
intuitions that Hemingway’s words (above) constitute, along with other passages in
his works, textual epitaphs.
CLOSURE ANXIETY
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If we want to maintain the distinction between the elegy and the epitaph and
the epitaph and the epitaphic form, we then need to focus on a minimum of four
disjunctive criteria: 1) How do the words present time? As fast and long (elegy) or
slow and short (epitaph)? 2) Is the main form of address “you” (elegy) or “he”
(epitaph, epitaphic form); 3) Is the speaker (narrator) in close proximity with the
dead; can the speaker “see and touch” where the body lies (epitaph)? Or is the body
mainly an object of memory (elegy)?; 4) Where in the text do the words of the
speaker about the dead occur? Beginning, middle, end? By their text-position, do
they provide “closure” to a topic, idea, or act? What is it, about the words, that
makes them radically different from other words in the text?
Referring to his composition of To Have and To Have Not, Hemingway
observes that he had “to perform the unperformable miracle you have to always do
at the end” (SL 453). For Austin, like Hemingway, ending the text “is a difficult act
to perform, being the cessation of acting” (65).75). In Poetic Closure, Barbara
Herrnstein Smith’s sees on ending as closure as an “internal design” in the
composition (36). Acknowledging the difficulties in saying anything conclusive
about closure Tomashevsky comments that an ending has to be “static” in order to
terminate the “dynamic” situation that precedes it. With this, the writer decides that
the dynamic portion of the text “needs no further development” (71). On this
reading, “the end of the elegy must be the end of loss, ideally with the achievement
of some kind of coming to the terms with the loss—replacing mourning with
resignation” (Newstok 171). Smith, in his study of the endings of forty nine stories
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of Hemingway, would include the reader in the loss that comes with closure. We
have “lived a sort of life in the fiction and die with its last word” (231).
In effect, the ending of a elegy is not elegiac. If so, then can the ending be
epitaphic? If we take Gray’s Elegy written in a Country Churchyard or Ben Jonson On
My Son as examples (elegies that end with a epitaph) then obviously the answer is
affirmative. But if we find counterexamples to these than, of course, we would have
to qualify our. Support for a qualified answer comes from Kichner’s study which
takes textual epitaphs, no matter their text-position, to be more about “silence,
absence and anonymity” than closure (184).
CLOSURE: DAMING THE STREAM
Rien n’est plus reél que rien.
(Nothing is more real than nothing)
—Samuel Beckett
By the above account in order for an ending to function as closure the words must
stand in some sort of disjunctive relationship to the body of the text. They stand separated
from the stream of preceding text as something different, as a virtual “dam.” Scholars
have expressed this in different ways: “Texts begin and end but by the end they have
inverted the end into its opposite, a nonend” (Richards 168; qtd Newstok 170); “The last
verse of poem is not a verse” (Agamben 112). “Our composition must be more accurate
in the beginning and end, than in the midst, and in the end more, than in the beginning;
for through the midst the stream bears us (Jonson 75). “The end of a poem signals “the
cessation of acting” in such a way as to turn “away from its previous employment’
(Newstok 171). What would the intrinsic qualities of such a linguistic phenomenon be?
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Do any of the endings of Hemingway’s narratives exhibit such qualities? Newstok
assembles a body of evidence to suggest strongly that the epitaphic form (for texts
reporting a death) contains most of them. The minimal requirement As discussed above,
these include terms denoting finality, “end,” “rest,” “peace” etc. a “static” effect set off
from a “dynamic” previous movement, the predominance of “he” over “you” form of
address and the like. As further proof for the candidacy of the epitaphic form as closural
ending he cites “The Epitaph” from Gray’s Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard and
the last four lines of Jonson’s On My First Son. (For the sake of context the complete text
of Jonson’s poem is given here).
Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy ;
My sin was too much hope of thee, lov'd boy.
Seven years thou wert lent to me, and I thee pay,
Exacted by thy fate, on the just day.
Oh, could I lose all father now ! For why
Will man lament the state he should envy?
To have so soon 'scaped world's and flesh's rage,
And if no other misery, yet age !
Rest in soft peace, and, asked, say, Here doth lie
Ben Jonson his best piece of poetry.
For whose sake henceforth all his vows be such
As what he loves may never like too much.
—Ben Jonson
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Epitaph
Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth
A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown.
Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth,
And Melacholy marked him for her own.
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heaven did a recompense as largely send:
He gave to Misery all he had, a tear,
He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.
No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode
(There they alike in trembling hope repose),
The bosom of his Father and his God.
—Thomas Gray
We have briefly discussed the ending of A Farewell to Arms and “The Capital
of the World” as allusions to the epitaphic form. We need, however, to cite
Hemingway’s use of negation. (A rough count is that around 80 percent of the short
stories end in a rush of negatives). Negatives, not surprisingly, commonly appear in
epitaphs and the ending of texts. But Hemingway’s use of negation, in conjunction
with other rhetorical devices, seem to go beyond the common. Three examples may
help to illustrate this:
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(1) There was nothing to do about him….It was a gray overcast day
with a low ceiling so their planes were not up. That and the fact that
cats know how to look after themselves was all the good luck that old
Man would ever have (CSS 58; “Old Man at the Bridge”)
(2) What did he fear? ….It was a nothing that he knew too well
It was all a nothing and a man was nothing too….Some lived
In it and never felt it but he knew it all was nada y pues nada y
nada y nada y pues nada (CSS 291; “A Clean Well-Lighted Place”)
(3) And George Gardner looked at me to see if I’d heard and I
had all right and he said. ‘Don’t you listen to what those bums
said, Joe. You old man was one swell guy.’
But I don’t know. Seems like when they get started they
Don’t leave a guy nothing (“My Old Man”; CSS 160; 160)
Here the themes we have been discussing, death, finality, closure, come into being
through negation. All existence, subjective and objective, point toward nonexistence. The stream of life, as it were, ultimately falls into a void. . Of the five
“categories” of omission Beegel identifies in Hemingway, the fifth is relevant here. It is
the “theme” of “nothing.” “When everything is left out, nothing remains, and like “A
Clean Well-Lighted Place,” Hemingway’s archetypal story of ‘nada,’ much of his writing
is ultimately about nothing” (92; my emphasis). On this reading, we have some
justification for asking: what else but “ultimately nothing” is the epitaphic form all
about? If so, then what else but that form is most suitable for ending a story about
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nothing? As Beckett has it, “nothing is more real than nothing” (Rien n’est plus reél que
rien).
This ties in with Sorenson’s observation that negative information, since it cannot
be “paraphrased” as positive information, is “more powerful than positive information.
Knowing how things are not gives you knowledge of exhaustiveness. If there is any
reduction to be achieved, it runs from positive statements to negative facts. For instance,
one reductive strategy is to exploit a kind of double negation; to say that the cat is on the
mat is to say that there is no negative fact of the cat not being on the mat ” (226-227).
Hemingway gestures toward such “exhaustiveness” in a 1030 letter to E. E. Dorman-OGowan about what he calls “Our well beloved nothing”:
What a bastard you are to decide not to come down here.
….Seeing you again was all I gave a damn about. But am
getting to be like the whore who wouldn’t give a fuck
for nothing. And this is evidently nothing again. Our
well beloved nothing and from who’s or whom’s well?”
(SL 691; my emphasis)
A TASTE FOR THE NEGATIVE
How did Hemingway develop his taste for the negative? From what well was it
drawn? Language, obviously, is one source. No language can function without negatives,
“no,” “never,” etc. and near-negatives like “empty,” “absence,” “anonymity” etc., and all
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the literature Hemingway had read and thought about makes heavy use of
negationespecially Shakespeare and Turgenev (Reynolds 181, 194).3 But just as likely
is the third source of history, “the age” and its personal effect on him; the wounds of war,
head injuries, headaches, depression and the death of friends (SL 723). On 4 January
1951 he wrote to Mizener “Best luck for what looks like as bad a year as we have seen”
(718); to Edmund Wilson he wrote “we live in a time of such violence, false witness,
inaccuracy, calumnies and lies for profit I am going to spend the rest of my life trying to
be just” (737)‘Writing to Mrs Paul Pfeifer (2 August 1937) he has this to say about “our
generation” and recent history’s effect on creating his disbelief in the next life:
You have always led such a fine life, giving such a just proportion to this
world and to the next one, that the ones of our generation who have
to make our own decisions and mistakes must seem, rightly very
often silly. I’ve temporarily I hope, lost all confidence in the next
one. It seems to have no importance at all….It seemed as though
the world were in such a bad way and certain things so necessary
to do that to think about any personal future was simply very
egotistic (SL 461)
But it can be argued that it was the horrors of the age, and the recognition of human
fallibility (especially his own), that gave him great strength as a writer. According to
Gregory, Hemingway’s son, his father “lived with the knowledge of what the edge of
nothingness is like” (Cain 566).
Then there is Kafka’s assessment of his own time and its “negative element”:
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I have brought nothing with me of what life requires, so far as I know, but
only the universal human weakness. With thisin this respect it is [a]
gigantic strengthI have vigorously absorbed the negative element of the
age in which I live, an age that is, of course, very close to me, which I
have no right ever to fight against, but as it were, a right to represent (qtd
Medin).
Strength from nothingness? The idea seems bizarre. But if we think of
nothingness as giving a writer “a right to represent” then we are not far from
Hemingway’s justification for taking war, death, the breakup of human relationships
and the like as his major subjects and ending their narratives, not exactly with an
form found on a tombstone (an “epitaph) perhaps, but with an epitaphic form—a
near-epitaph.
SOURCES
Hemingway’s reading was more important to his art
and to his life than Coleridge’s was to his.
—Michael Reynolds
If Hemingway was influenced by the form of the epitaph (to the degree
suggested here), then a reasonable question to ask is “what were his sources? One,
of course, would have been his experiences, that most persons have, with tombstone
epitaphs. Another, as a churchgoer in many parts of the world, with his reading of
internal memorials to the dead (Stoneback 458-9). For textual epitaphs a prime
source would certainly have been English writers like Shakespeare, Sterne and Gray.
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(Reynolds 181 (Shakespeare #1894-1887] 131 [Gray #996], 188 [Sterne #2812];
Michael S. Reynolds. Hemingway’s Reading 1910-1940. Princeton, New Jersey.
Princeton UP, 1981.) Shakespeare would have been an especially important source.
As Newstok shows, epitaphs and spitaphic forms s run through his works from
Henry IV, Part 1 to Hamlet (2.2.504-6) to Love’s Labour’s Lost (4.2. 46-47).
Hemingway would also have learned a great deal about epitaphic writing from
Shakespeare’s sonnet, especially #81 etc etc etc And it is likely that Hemingway was
familiar with Shakespeare’s tombstone epitaph situated in the Chancel of Holy
Trinity Church, Stratford UK.
Another, just as pervasive influence of epitaphic writing on Hemingway,
would likely have been the sincerity (and seriousness) of an epitaph. With the
possible exception of prayer, epitaphic writing has long been considered the most
sincere kind of speech and the least dissimulating (Newstok 145-7). We find
numerous examples in Hemingway’s remarks on his writing of similar sentiments—
like these, quoted by Phillips under the heading of “The Qualities of a Writer”:
Then there must be…an absolute conscience as unchanging
as the standard meter in Paris, to prevent faking (my emphasis)
(7).
…real seriousness in regard to writing being one of the two
absolutes (8).
The most essential gift for a good writer is a built-in, shockproof,
shit detector (8)
15
In a letter to Bernard Berenson (1954) Hemingway says that the “obligation” of the
writer is to make things “become a part of the experience of the person who reads
it” (SL 832).
Make the writing “part of the experience of the person who reads it.” This is
highly reminiscent of the goal of the epitaphers with their epitaphs; namely to arrest
the attention of readers and then “move” them with their message (Newstok 30). No
other form of writing about death is as conclusive in its reach. “So as I am now, so
shall you be” the dead say to us with their epitaphs— transforming every day into
Ash Wednesday.
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——————— Beegel, Susan F. Hemingway’s Craft of Omission: Four Manuscript
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/Zuber/index.html (Zuber article)
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