The Sun Also Rises quotes

… champion, and that perhaps a horse had stepped on his face, or that maybe his mother had been frightened or seen something, or that he had, maybe, bumped into something as a young child, but I finally had somebody verify the story from Spider Kelly.

Spider Kelly not only remembered Cohn. He had often wondered what had become of him.

Robert Cohn was a member, through his father, of one of the richest Jewish families in New York, and through his mother of one of the oldest.

and just when he had made up his mind to leave his wife she left him and went off with a miniature-painter.

As he had been thinking for months about leaving his wife and had not done it because it would be too cruel to deprive her of himself, her departure was a very healthful shock.

The divorce was arranged and Robert Cohn went out to the Coast. In California he fell among literary people and, as he still had a little of the fifty thousand left, in a short time he was backing a review of the Arts.

Then there was another thing. He had been reading W. H. Hudson. That sounds like an innocent occupation, but Cohn had read and reread The Purple Land.

The Purple Land is a very sinister book if read too late in life.

It recounts splendid imaginary amorous adventures of a perfect English gentleman in an intensely romantic land, the scenery of which is very well described.

“

I can’t stand it to think my life is going so fast and I’m not really living it.

”

“I can’t stand it to think my life is going so fast and I’m not really living it.”

“Nobody ever lives their life all the way up except bullfighters.”

“I’m not interested in bullfighters. That’s an abnormal life. I want to go back in the country in South America. We could have a great trip.”

“Listen, Robert, going to another country doesn’t make any difference. I’ve tried all that.

You can’t get away from yourself by moving from one place to another. There’s nothing to that.

”

I could picture it.

I have a rotten habit of picturing the bedroom scenes of my friends.

We went out to the Café Napolitain to have an apéritif and watch the evening crowd on the Boulevard.

“Why don’t you go somewhere else?”

Pernod is greenish imitation absinthe. When you add water it turns milky. It tastes like licorice and it has a good uplift, but it drops you just as far.

We sat and drank it, and the girl looked sullen.

Brett was damned good-looking. She wore a slipover jersey sweater and a tweed skirt, and her hair was brushed back like a boy’s. 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.

“It’s a fine crowd you’re with, Brett,” I said.

“

Love you? I simply turn all to jelly when you touch me.

”

“That’s my fault.

Don’t we pay for all the things we do, though?

”

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.

“Listen, Robert, dear. Let me tell you something. You won’t mind, will you? Don’t have scenes with your young ladies. Try not to.

Because you can’t have scenes without crying, and then you pity yourself so much you can’t remember what the other person’s said.

You’ll never be able to remember any conversations that way. Just try and be calm. I know it’s awfully hard. But remember, it’s for literature. We all ought to make sacrifices for literature. Look at me. I’m going to England without a protest.

“You’re right,” Brett said. “You’re terribly right.

I always joke people and I haven’t a friend in the world. Except Jake here.

”

“

You see, Mr. Barnes, it is because I have lived very much that now I can enjoy everything so well.

Don’t you find it like that?”

“

All right. Have it your own way. Road to hell paved with unbought stuffed dogs. Not my fault.

”

“He’s all right,” I said. “He’s a taxidermist.”

“That was in another country,” Bill said. “And besides all the animals were dead.”

“One more,” Brett said, “and I must run. Do send the waiter for a taxi.”

… pelota against them, and the houses in the villages had red tiled roofs, and then the road turned off and commenced to climb and we were going way up close along a hillside, with a valley below and hills stretched off back toward the sea.

You couldn’t see the sea. It was too far away. You could see only hills and more hills, and you knew where the sea was.

We crossed the Spanish frontier. There was a little stream and a bridge, and Spanish carabineers, with patent-leather Bonaparte hats, and short guns on their backs, on one side, and on the other fat Frenchmen in kepis and mustaches.

I have never seen a man in civil life as nervous as Robert Cohn—nor as eager. I was enjoying it. It was lousy to enjoy it, but I felt lousy.

Cohn had a wonderful quality of bringing out the worst in anybody.

After a while we heard the train-whistle way off below on the other side of the plateau, and then we saw the headlight coming up the hill.

Why I felt that impulse to devil him I do not know. Of course I do know.

I was blind, unforgivingly jealous of what had happened to him.

The fact that I took it as a matter of course did not alter that any. I certainly did hate him.

“What bloody-fool things people do. Why didn’t she go off with some of her own people? Or you?”—he slurred that over—“or me? Why not me?” He looked at his face carefully in the glass, put a big dab of lather on each cheekbone. “

It’s an honest face. It’s a face any woman would be safe with.

”

“She should have. All women should see it.

It’s a face that ought to be thrown on every screen in the country. Every woman ought to be given a copy of this face as she leaves the altar.

Mothers should tell their daughters about this face. My son”—he pointed the razor at me—“go west with this face and grow up with the country.”

I went over to the cupboard and brought the rum bottle and poured a half-tumblerful into the pitcher.

“Direct action,” said Bill. “It beats legislation.”

The girl came in and laid the table for supper.

“There you go. And you claim you want to be a writer, too. You’re only a newspaper man. An expatriated newspaper man.

You ought to be ironical the minute you get out of bed. You ought to wake up with your mouth full of pity.

”

It’s the caffeine in it. Caffeine, we are here. Caffeine puts a man on her horse and a woman in his grave. You know what’s the trouble with you? You’re an expatriate. One of the worst type. Haven’t you heard that?

Nobody that ever left their own country ever wrote anything worth printing. Not even in the newspapers.

”

He smiled again.

He always smiled as though bullfighting were a very special secret between the two of us; a rather shocking but really very deep secret that we knew about.

He always smiled as though there were something lewd about the secret to outsiders, but that it was something that we understood. It would not do to expose it to people who would not understand.

Montoya could forgive anything of a bullfighter who had afición. He could forgive attacks of nerves, panic, bad unexplainable actions, all sorts of lapses.

For one who had afición he could forgive anything. At once he forgave me all my friends.

Without his ever saying anything they were simply a little something shameful between us, like the spilling open of the horses in bullfighting.

“How did you go bankrupt?” Bill asked.

“Two ways,” Mike said. “Gradually and then suddenly.”

“Friends,” said Mike. “I had a lot of friends. False friends. Then I had creditors, too. Probably had more creditors than anybody in England.”

“

They lead such a quiet life. They never say anything and they’re always hanging about so.

”

“

Breeding be damned. Who has any breeding, anyway, except the bulls?

Aren’t the bulls lovely? Don’t you like them, Bill? Why don’t you say something, Robert? Don’t sit there looking like a bloody funeral. What if Brett did sleep with you? She’s slept with lots of better people than you.”

It must have been pleasant for him to see her looking so lovely, and know he had been away with her and that everyone knew it. They could not take that away from him. Bill was very funny. So was Michael. They were good together.

It was like certain dinners I remember from the war. There was much wine, an ignored tension, and a feeling of things coming that you could not prevent happening.

Under the wine I lost the disgusted feeling and was happy. It seemed they were all such nice people.

I heard them laugh. I turned off the light and tried to go to sleep. It was not necessary to read any more. I could shut my eyes without getting the wheeling sensation. But I could not sleep.

There is no reason why because it is dark you should look at things differently from when it is light. The hell there isn’t!

I figured that all out once, and for six months I never slept with the electric light off. That was another bright idea. To hell with women, anyway. To hell with you, Brett Ashley.

I figured that all out once, and for six months I never slept with the electric light off. That was another bright idea. To hell with women, anyway. To hell with you, Brett Ashley.

Women made such swell friends. Awfully swell.

In the first place, you had to be in love with a woman to have a basis of friendship. I had been having Brett for a friend. I had not been thinking about her side of it. I had been getting something for nothing.

In the first place, you had to be in love with a woman to have a basis of friendship. I had been having Brett for a friend. I had not been thinking about her side of it. I had been getting something for nothing.

That only delayed the presentation of the bill. The bill always came.

That was one of the swell things you could count on.

I thought I had paid for everything. Not like the woman pays and pays and pays. No idea of retribution or punishment. Just exchange of values. You gave up something and got something else. Or you worked for something.

You paid some way for everything that was any good.

I paid my way into enough things that I liked, so that I had a good time. Either you paid by learning about them, or by experience, or by taking chances, or by money.

You paid some way for everything that was any good. I paid my way into enough things that I liked, so that I had a good time. Either you paid by learning about them, or by experience, or by taking chances, or by money.

Enjoying living was learning to get your money’s worth and knowing when you had it.

You could get your money’s worth. The world was a good place to buy in. It seemed like a fine philosophy. In five years, I thought, it will seem just as silly as all the other fine philosophies I’ve had.

Either you paid by learning about them, or by experience, or by taking chances, or by money. Enjoying living was learning to get your money’s worth and knowing when you had it. You could get your money’s worth.

The world was a good place to buy in.

It seemed like a fine philosophy. In five years, I thought, it will seem just as silly as all the other fine philosophies I’ve had.

Enjoying living was learning to get your money’s worth and knowing when you had it. You could get your money’s worth. The world was a good place to buy in. It seemed like a fine philosophy.

In five years, I thought, it will seem just as silly as all the other fine philosophies I’ve had.

Perhaps that wasn’t true, though. Perhaps as you went along you did learn something. I did not care what it was all about. All I wanted to know was how to live in it.

Perhaps that wasn’t true, though. Perhaps as you went along you did learn something.

I did not care what it was all about. All I wanted to know was how to live in it.

Maybe if you found out how to live in it you learned from that what it was all about.

Bill was a good drunk. Cohn was never drunk. Mike was unpleasant after he passed a certain point. I liked to see him hurt Cohn. I wished he would not do it, though, because afterward it made me disgusted at myself.

That was morality; things that made you disgusted afterward.

No, that must be immorality. That was a large statement. What a lot of bilge I could think up at night. What rot, I could hear Brett say it. What rot!

I liked to see him hurt Cohn. I wished he would not do it, though, because afterward it made me disgusted at myself. That was morality; things that made you disgusted afterward. No, that must be immorality. That was a large statement.

What a lot of bilge I could think up at night.

What rot, I could hear Brett say it. What rot! When you were with English you got into the habit of using English expressions in your thinking. The English spoken language—the upper classes, anyway—must have fewer words than the Eskimo.

I read the Turgenev. I knew that now, reading it in the oversensitized state of my mind after much too much brandy, I would remember it somewhere, and afterward it would seem as though it had really happened to me.

I would always have it. That was another good thing you paid for and then had.

Some time along toward daylight I went to sleep.

It was a little before noon. Robert Cohn and Bill were sitting at one of the tables. The marble-topped tables and the white wicker chairs were gone. They were replaced by cast-iron tables and severe folding chairs.

The café was like a battleship stripped for action.

Today the waiters did not leave you alone all morning to read without asking if you wanted to order something. A waiter came up as soon as I sat down.

The fiesta was really started. It kept up day and night for seven days. The dancing kept up, the drinking kept up, the noise went on. The things that happened could only have happened during a fiesta.

Everything became quite unreal finally and it seemed as though nothing could have any consequences.

It seemed out of place to think of consequences during the fiesta. All during the fiesta you had the feeling, even when it was quiet, that you had to shout any remark to make it heard. It was the same feeling about any action.

Pedro Romero nodded, seeming very far away and dignified when we shook hands. Montoya said something about what great aficionados we were, and that we wanted to wish him luck. Romero listened very seriously. Then he turned to me.

He was the best-looking boy I have ever seen.

“You go to the bullfight,” he said in English.

She saw why she liked Romero’s capework and why she did not like the others.

Romero never made any contortions, always it was straight and pure and natural in line.

The others twisted themselves like corkscrews, their elbows raised, and leaned against the flanks of the bull after his horns had passed, to give a faked look of danger. Afterward, all that was faked turned bad and gave an unpleasant feeling.

He was not at all embarrassed.

He talked of his work as something altogether apart from himself. There was nothing conceited or braggartly about him.

“I like it very much that you like my work,” he said. “But you haven’t seen it yet. Tomorrow, if I get a good bull, I will try and show it to you.”

“Yes. But he didn’t need to be a swine.”

“Everybody behaves badly,” I said. “Give them the proper chance.”

“You wouldn’t behave badly.” Brett looked at me.

“I’m not sorry for him. I hate him, myself.”

“I hate him, too,” she shivered. “I hate his damned suffering.”

We walked arm in arm down the side street away from the crowd and the lights of the square. The street was dark and wet, and we walked along it to the fortifications at the edge of town.

“I can’t help it. I’m a goner. It’s tearing me all up inside.”

“I can’t help it. I’ve never been able to help anything.”

“You ought to stop it.”

“I can’t help it. I’m a goner now, anyway. Don’t you see the difference?”

“I’ve got to do something. I’ve got to do something I really want to do. I’ve lost my self-respect.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I can’t just stay tight all the time.”

“Oh, darling, please stay by me. Please stay by me and see me through this.”

“I don’t say it’s right. It is right though for me. God knows, I’ve never felt such a bitch.”

“I said you’d live a long time.”

“I know it,” Romero said. “I’m never going to die.”

I tapped with my fingertips on the table. Romero saw it. He shook his head.

I tapped with my fingertips on the table. Romero saw it. He shook his head.

“No. Don’t do that. The bulls are my best friends.”

“You kill your friends?” she asked.

I stood up.

I had heard them talking from a long way away. It all seemed like some bad play.

“I’m going over to the hotel,” I said. Then I heard them talking about me.

“Here.” I put one hand on the small of my back and the other on my chest, where it looked as though the horn must have come through. The waiter nodded his head and swept the crumbs from the table with his cloth.

“Badly cogido,” he said. “All for sport. All for pleasure.”

He went away and came back with the long-handled coffee and milk pots. He poured the milk and coffee. It came out of the long spouts in two streams into the big cup. The waiter nodded his head.

Outside in the hot brightness of the street Brett looked up at the treetops in the wind. The praying had not been much of a success.

“Don’t know why I get so nervy in church,” Brett said. “Never does me any good.”

“I’m damned bad for a religious atmosphere,” Brett said. “I’ve the wrong type of face.

“You might pray,” I laughed.

“Never does me any good. I’ve never gotten anything I prayed for. Have you?”

“Oh, rot,” said Brett. “Maybe it works for some people, though. You don’t look very religious, Jake.”

“The blood must stiffen them,” Bill said.

“Funny,” Brett said. “How one doesn’t mind the blood.”

Below in the narrow passage of the callejón the sword-handlers arranged everything. All the seats were full. Above, all the boxes were full. There was not an empty seat except in the President’s box. When he came in the fight would start.

It was the greatness, but it did not make bullfighting wonderful to him any more.

Pedro Romero had the greatness. He loved bullfighting, and I think he loved the bulls, and I think he loved Brett.

Everything of which he could control the locality he did in front of her all that afternoon. Never once did he look up. He made it stronger that way, and did it for himself, too, as well as for her.

Each time he let the bull pass so close that the man and the bull and the cape that filled and pivoted ahead of the bull were all one sharply etched mass. It was all so slow and so controlled.

It was as though he were rocking the bull to sleep.

He made four veronicas like that, and finished with a half-veronica that turned his back on the bull and came away toward the applause, his hand on his hip, his cape on his arm, and the bull watching his back going away.

In his own bulls he was perfect. His first bull did not see well. After the first two passes with the cape Romero knew exactly how bad the vision was impaired. He worked accordingly.

It was not brilliant bullfighting. It was only perfect bullfighting.

The crowd wanted the bull changed. They made a great row. Nothing very fine could happen with a bull that could not see the lures, but the President would not order him replaced.

Romero went on. It was like a course in bullfighting. All the passes he linked up, all completed, all slow, templed and smooth. There were no tricks and no mystifications. There was no brusqueness.

And each pass as it reached the summit gave you a sudden ache inside. The crowd did not want it ever to be finished.

The bull was squared on all four feet to be killed, and Romero killed directly below us. He killed not as he had been forced to by the last bull, but as he wanted to.

I went out the door and into my own room and lay on the bed. The bed went sailing off and I sat up in bed and looked at the wall to make it stop.

Outside in the square the fiesta was going on. It did not mean anything.

Later Bill and Mike came in to get me to go down and eat with them. I pretended to be asleep.

“Eat some soup,” Bill said.

The three of us sat at the table, and it seemed as though about six people were missing.

In the morning it was all over. The fiesta was finished.

I woke about nine o’clock, had a bath, dressed, and went downstairs. The square was empty and there were no people on the streets. A few children were picking up rocket-sticks in the square.

“Well,” Bill said, “we might as well have another drink.”

“Damned good idea,” Mike said. “One never gets anywhere by discussing finances.”

“No,” said Bill. Bill and I rolled for the next two rounds. Bill lost and paid. We went out to the car.

I drank a bottle of wine for company. It was a Château Margaux. It was pleasant to be drinking slowly and to be tasting the wine and to be drinking alone.

A bottle of wine was good company.

Afterward I had coffee. The waiter recommended a Basque liqueur called Izzarra. He brought in the bottle and poured a liqueur-glass full. He said Izzarra was made of the flowers of the Pyrenees. The veritable flowers of the Pyrenees.

The waiter seemed a little offended about the flowers of the Pyrenees, so I overtipped him. That made him happy.

It felt comfortable to be in a country where it is so simple to make people happy.

You can never tell whether a Spanish waiter will thank you. Everything is on such a clear financial basis in France. It is the simplest country to live in. No one makes things complicated by becoming your friend for any obscure reason.

You can never tell whether a Spanish waiter will thank you. Everything is on such a clear financial basis in France. It is the simplest country to live in. No one makes things complicated by becoming your friend for any obscure reason.

If you want people to like you you have only to spend a little money.

I spent a little money and the waiter liked me. He appreciated my valuable qualities. He would be glad to see me back. I would dine there again some time and he would be glad to see me, and would want me at his table.

… a fool to be going back into it, but I stood in line with my passport, opened my bags for the customs, bought a ticket, went through a gate, climbed onto the train, and after forty minutes and eight tunnels I was at San Sebastian.

Even on a hot day San Sebastian has a certain early-morning quality.

The trees seem as though their leaves were never quite dry. The streets feel as though they had just been sprinkled. It is always cool and shady on certain streets on the hottest day.