The spacious foreground: interpreting simplicity and ecocritical ethics in The Old Man and the Sea.
When a small warbler comes to rest upon the stern of Santiago's skiff in me Old Man and tile Sea, there is something provocative about the way this meeting between man and bird serves as a momentary respite from the antagonism between man and fish. The bird is tired, having flown through the night in search of land, and Santiago welcomes the company of this silent stranger. That the old man speaks to the bird suggests the extent of his loneliness and, perhaps, his sympathy for a fellow traveler: '"How old are you?' the old man asked the bird. 'Is this your first trip?'" (60). Previously an element of the background, a dot in the sky that has come "from the north" (60), the warbler moves into the narrative and demands attention: its simple movements command Santiago's (and our own) careful contemplation as it quite literally moves from the stern of the boat into the protagonist's line of sight--onto Santiago's fishing line, which the bird's "delicate feet grip ... fast" (60). For a brief moment, the line transforms from an object designed to master and possess nature into a space of refuge; it is a site of competing desires and reveals the ethical value of such a simple scene. Here we observe nature move from the backdrop to occupy the narrative foreground. In this pause, the bird inspires a sense of obligation in the fisherman, and the incident's setting solicits the reader's response.
This scene stages the ethical underpinnings of what I call the spacious text, an important but under-theorized dimension of Hemingway's aesthetic of simplicity. As the bird briefly transitions from the background into the foreground and back again, the reader comes to recognize that nature is neither an empty space nor something merely to be worked upon and worked over. Instead, nature simultaneously beckons the interpreting subject and resists his imaginative advances. As a simple-yet-opaque other, the bird works to challenge the fisherman's desire to imagine it as "company" (62). Santiago speaks to it playfully as if it were human: "Stay at my house if you like, bird" (61), but the bird does not speak back, nor does it even acknowledge the man's communicative advances.
What is most significant from a narratological perspective is the way the text challenges Santiago's hermeneutic protocol. Whereas Santiago imagines the bird as human in order to compensate for his loneliness, the text at no point validates this anthropomorphism. Instead, Hemingway disimagines the bird by retaining its imagistic simplicity and offering no suggestion of a symbolic purpose--he maintains the impenetrability of nonhuman interiority, and by doing so underscores the limits of Santiago's interpretive gesture. Moreover, immediately after Santiago tells the bird that he is "with a friend" the marlin gives "a sudden lurch that pull[s] the old man down on to the bow" (61), reminding us that Santiago's way of seeing the world is fallible. The violent pull indicates that Santiago's anthropocentric division of nature into friends and enemies--the useful and the useless, according to human needs--does not fully represent the reality of the situation. At the same time, such narrative patterning preserves the possibility of a responsive relationship (as opposed to an utter lack of correlation) between the human and nonhuman other. The pull is a cue from the sea itself, an irruption of vast space into the foreground that reminds us of the potential power of setting in narrative.
Hemingway's representation of the vast space of the Atlantic--simply-wrought, limitless, and overwhelming--provides an important case study for understanding spaciousness as a dimension of literary simplicity. As a narratological tool, my version of spaciousness diverges significantly from Gaston Bachelard's more philosophical concept of the "vast" which is for him "a word that brings calm and unity; it opens up unlimited space" (197). For Bachelard, there is comfort in vastness, a sense of the always-benign intimacy that can arise from one's sensation of immensity, a feeling of place and at-homeness within the world. (1) From my perspective, spaciousness refers to a simple, imagistic setting that momentarily comes to occupy the narrative foreground. Such simple images of space are not always "felicitous,' nor necessarily "the friend of being" (Bachelard 208). Rather, to call a text spacious is to acknowledge how images of open space are related to the freedom of interpretive "movement" offered to the reader by narrative indeterminacy and "openness." At the same time, the spacious text can also expose the limits of one's interpretive agency.
My reading of Hemingway's novella wonders whether there is a relationship between the text's environmental ethics and its hermeneutic ethics, between the way Santiago uses nature and the way we use Hemingway's text through interpretation. Is there a link between the way the vast and simply- wrought settings of the text work upon the reader and the way those spaces condition Santiago's understanding of otherness? Here, I specifically consider how Santiago's interpretation of spaciousness occasions his transition from an anthropocentric to a biocentric ethic, how that ethic comes into being for both Santiago and the reader through an interpretive process that exposes the inevitability of appropriation in the text and the world beyond, and how Hemingway's recalcitrant simplicity might offer readers an opportunity to negotiate that inevitability through moments of self-consciousness.
To read space as both text and context is to recognize the otherness of space and thus how the novella interrogates not only the ethics of Santiago's encounter with alternative subjectivities but our own ethics as well. This approach aligns me more fully with Mieke Bal's concept of "thematized space" in which space "becomes an object of presentation itself, for its own sake.... an acting place rather than the place of action" (139). As I examine the ways in which Hemingway moves the background into the foreground, I am also examining how the text conceives and positions us in terms of an ethical relationship between the human and the nonhuman.
As a fisherman whose livelihood depends upon the ways in which he has learned to use the sea for sustenance, Santiago begins the narrative as a subject defined by the anthropocentric impulse to instrumentalize and control the nonhuman other. At the same time, Hemingway's diction carefully distinguishes Santiago's tender and "loving" relation to otherness from that of the other fishermen in his town who "butcher" their marlin and take their sharks to the shark factory where they are "hoisted on a block and tackle, their livers removed, their fins cut off and their hides skinned out and their flesh cut into strips for salting" (13, 11-12). The text by no means condemns the unlucky Santiago for his way of life. Instead, the novellas ethical contribution rests not in the ways that it wholly denounces "use" (of the sea, of others) but in the ways it prompts recognition of life's unavoidably unethical moments. This realization ultimately distances Santiago even more from the other fishermen. And the reader might also glimpse this recognition of the inevitable costs of individuation and mastery through the hermeneutic protocols of Hemingway's simple setting. By focusing on Santiago's reading of the vast silent space that surrounds him rather than on his struggle with the constantly-moving and active marlin, I am attempting to show how even the most simply-wrought, seemingly passive images of nature can invoke both a sense of obligation to the other and a sense that interpretation is a potential mode of violence within which we must learn to live.
The modernist era brought with it a renegotiation of the terms with which humans defined their place in, and relationship to the external world, providing an impetus for a fresh look at how literary representations of the nonhuman during that time intersect with an ethics of environmental responsibility. For example, Michelle Levy has recently argued that Virginia Woolf in her short fiction allows "nonhuman forms of life and objects to share the same stage with human characters;' and thus "expresses a vision of life in which the human presence no longer dominates but is simply part of a larger whole" (146). Levy envisions an implied ethos in the way the external world both impels the imagination and "imposes crucial constraints on the life of the mind" (141). According to the Oxford English Dictionary, the term "biocentric" was first used during the modernist period. In an 1899 issue of Nature, R. Meldola loosely referred to biocentrism as a set of ideas that were "broader" in scope than those of anthropocentricism. By 1913, in The Fitness of the Environment: An Inquiry into the Biological Significance of the Properties of Matter, L.J. Henderson would conclude that it was "right" for the biologist to refer to the universe as biocentric ("Biocentric" def.1a).
Far from imposing an ethical model upon the modernists, then, my investigation of the burgeoning forms of biocentrism within The Old Man and the Sea is an attempt to re-engage an area of inquiry that Anglo-American writers at the turn of the century were themselves navigating. Biocentric ethics posit a natural world that is non-instrumental, or, in narratological terms, non-synthetic. (2) According to Roger King, biocentrism is constituted through its challenge to an anthropocentric ethic that focuses exclusively on human definitions of value and "weigh[s] the harm to nonhumans or the disruption of ecosystems only insofar as these constitute a cost or benefit to human beings" (210). Conversely, the fundamental imperative of the biocentric model is that "we learn to integrate nonhuman needs and interests into human moral deliberation" (King 211).
This ethical questioning of the relationship between the human and the nonhuman has informed the ecocritical response to The Old Man and the Sea in recent years. Glen Love, for example, has argued that the novellas central problem is depicting the "natural world as the arena for human greatness but effecting thereby [the world's] further diminishment" (129). Susan Beegel argues that the text does not necessarily support such a reading and that Santiago's imagining of the sea as la mar offers a way of seeing nature as "a protagonist on an equal footing with Santiago" and thus a means to "abandon... the anthropocentric critical practice of relegating nature to the role of setting" (131). On this last point, Beegel and I share a common purpose: my focus on how vast and simple space works from the perspective of narrative ethics attempts to show how Hemingway foregrounds nature and, in doing so, draws a parallel between the ethical challenges involved in mastering nature and those involved in mastering the otherness of the text through interpretation. Still, in Beegel's eco-feminist approach, she interprets the sea as a female protagonist and thus establishes an ethics of compassion founded in our recognition of the sea's human qualities, in its capacity as a beautiful subject to stand in for the wife Santiago has lost and provide an outlet for Santiago's "language of seduction" (Beegel 138). But Santiago's gendering of the sea (which occurs fairly early on in the story) is not necessarily endorsed by the text; rather, as I will show, Santiago progresses through this initial imagining of space-as-human into a recognition of space-as-space. This process anticipates the ways in which Hemingway's simple representations of vast space condition the reader's own self-conscious response to otherness, invoking a sense of imaginative mobility and freedom on the one hand, and a sense of imagistic integrity on the other.
The vast spaces of Hemingway's novella articulate an anxiety towards the synthetic value of nature in both life and art. Whereas Love's ecocritical approach stresses that "Nature exists in Hemingway's work and life primarily as a backdrop for aggressive and destructive individualism, the same individualism which, written large, has authored ecological devastation" (123), I argue that the prominence of vast and simple space in The Old Man and the Sea produces an interpretive anxiety destabilizing such an anthropocentric reading. In bringing such ecology to the fore, the text implicitly asks what one ought to "do" with and in and to such space. As Santiago laments that he "went too far out" (127)--that his error was one of trespass, of crossing spatial boundaries--the reader comes to recognize how vast space defers its own promise of freedom. This recognition is key to understanding the hermeneutic ethics of the novella as it emphasizes both the potential for misusing space through an aggressive assertion of will and the power of space to overwhelm the human agent. The text's representation of space appears to work against the dominant narrative strain. Whereas the battle between Santiago and the marlin dramatizes the intersection between human need (for sustenance, livelihood) and human desire (for individuation through control over the natural world), the presence of vast space suggests an alternative relation with otherness in which the ego hesitates and, for a moment, dissolves into the eco. The narrative, in this sense, exhibits a stubbornness: the simply-wrought natural world can be read as both background and foreground, existing for us and existing for itself.
Much of this ethical ambivalence is related to the ways in which the text's representations of nature reveal a double-voiced discourse. Readers have noted how Hemingway's "voice resonates within the voice of the character he is presenting" (Cain 112). Mario Vargas Llosa describes the narrative strategy as one in which "the omniscient narrator speaks from close proximity to the protagonist but often permits the narrative voice to be assumed by Santiago, at times completely vanishing while Santiago relieves anguish or monotony with thoughts" (46). Through such double-voiced discourse, the text resists becoming a purely individualistic tragedy. Relatively early on in the narrative, the text offers an extended vision of the Gulf Stream ecosystem:
The clouds over the land now rose like mountains and the coast was only a long green line with the grey-blue hills behind it. The water was a dark blue now, so dark that it was almost purple. As he looked down into it he saw the red sifting of the plankton in the dark water and the strange light the sun made now. He watched his lines to see them go straight down out of sight into the water and he was happy to see so much plankton because it meant fish. The strange light the sun made in the water, now that the sun was higher, meant good weather and so did the shape of the clouds over the land. But the bird was almost out of sight now and nothing showed on the surface of the water but some patches of yellow, sun-bleached Sargasso weed and the purple, formalized, iridescent, gelatinous bladder of a Portuguese man-of-war floating close beside the boat. It turned on its side and then righted itself. It floated cheerfully as a bubble with its long deadly purple filaments trailing a yard behind it in the water. (38-39)
From the panoramic perspective of the first sentence, to Santiago's detailed observation of the plankton in the water, there is a downwards movement in this passage. This movement from the narrator's rendering of the vast and simple space into the character's particularized perceptions also signals a shift in ethical perspectives. The panoramic view, with its characterization of the horizon as "a long green line;' suggests that open space is the site of limitations and boundaries rather than freedom. The clouds, the coast, and the hills together arrest vision--they prevent the eye from seeing any further. Hemingway has embedded in this description a notion of the natural world as an other existing autonomously, not as a background for human desires, nor wholly vulnerable to human vision. This sense of limits is juxtaposed against Santiago's own way of seeing space, which is, in fact, an attempt to defy limitation. Santiago's "line" operates in contradistinction to the line of the horizon; his line leads his eye downwards, breaching the nonhuman ocean space.
This is not to say that Hemingway presents Santiago as nature's unconditional antagonist. The man whose eyes "were the same colour as the sea" (10) demonstrates moments of profound respect and sympathy for the ecosystem. The marlin becomes his "brother" (102), and the flying fish are "his principal friends on the ocean" (31). But Santiago's desire to see his line move into "the dark water" works against the way the text simultaneously challenges the reader's impulse to see through the simple space.
As the passage moves forward, however, Hemingway does not maintain such a strict division between the two modes of seeing. The middle of the paragraph, beginning with the dependent clause of the fourth sentence--"it meant fish"--is written with ambiguous focalization, a function of the free indirect discourse. The reader cannot be sure whether this sense of meaning is Santiago's interpretation of his environment (Hemingway speaking through Santiago's perspective), or whether, due to the simple declarative structure of the phrase, the space has this meaning regardless of Santiago's perception (Hemingway attempting to access a specifically ecological perspective). In this sentence and the next (in which the "strange light" of the sun in the water "meant good weather"), the perspectives of the implied author and Santiago appear to merge, exposing a certain interpretive recalcitrance. On the one hand, we can understand Santiago's interpretation of the ecosystem as divulging his propensity to see space in terms of its instrumental value; in this reading, the strange light makes the weather "good" for fishing, for human activity. On the other hand, the fact of the weather can be read as a fact of the space itself; the construction of the sentence suggests that human meaning need not figure into the value of the space--its goodness--because the "strange light" and the "shape of the clouds over the land" make meaning independent of Santiago.
Immediately after this strange moment, the point-of-view once again becomes discernable. I do not think we can attribute the diction--"formalized, iridescent, gelatinous"--to Santiago, and the generally expository and descriptive technique echoes the voice at the beginning of the passage. The difference between the narrator's relatively thin, non-invasive image of the Portuguese man-of-war and Santiago's vengeful interpretation of it as a "whore" (39) again exposes the unavoidable antagonism implicit in his relationship with the ecosystem. Santiago must always use the sea in some way; at no point does the text suggest that such a role can or should ever be fully relinquished. What Hemingway's foregrounded vision of nature does suggest, however, is that those inevitably violent and antagonistic moments might be tempered through a recognition of the subject's imaginative limitations, a recognition that we all ultimately oscillate between moments of control and non-control.
The larger point is that this brief moment of ambiguous, double-voiced discourse reveals the text's ambivalence regarding the ethical navigation, use, and interpretation of open space. The passage does not ask its readers to take one side or another; in fact, the brief merging of perspectives that occurs here allows us to participate in both ego- and eco-consciousness. In this way, we move from the position of observer to a more sympathetic view of both ethics: we see the sensitivity with which Santiago reads the detail of the space in order that he might sustain himself, and we also see the space as an ecology that actively resists human hierarchies of value. This is a moment where the narrative almost irrupts into lyric, where the reader suspends judgment and instead projects him or herself into both perspectives at once? Insofar as this representation of vast space asks that the reader occupy two competing subject positions, it signals a moment of ethical hesitation, rich in uncertainty, challenging the interpretive protocols we place upon the text-as-other.
Such moments, I think, revise our expectations about how to conceive natural space in the novella. To read the simply-wrought space not just as background but as an integral part of the foreground is to understand it as potentially beyond human manipulation. Beegel reads the sea as "beyond control" (146), arguing that there is a sense of "reciprocal obligation" implied through Santiago's treatment of la mar as a "mother goddess" (142). Although I do not share Beegel's gendered approach, I do find that this sense of ecological obligation arises (both in Santiago and the reader) through Hemingway's refusal to "relegate nature" to an unambiguously passive position. Vast space in this story consistently resists human attempts to see into it and to know it: "Then the sun was brighter and the glare came on the water and then, as it rose clear, the flat sea sent it back at his eyes so that it hurt sharply and he rowed without looking into it" (35).
The way in which Hemingway has activated the space and shown how the simple interaction between sun and sea defy Santiago's gaze is not the only matter of significance here. His simple prose style also minimizes our ability to see the space as personified. In other words, the implied author goes to great lengths not to anthropomorphize the sea as Santiago does when he thinks of her "as though she were a woman" (32). Whereas Beegel locates the ecological ethic of the narrative through an interpretation of the sea as "a protagonist on equal footing with Santiago" (131), I understand the simplicity of passages such as the one above as retaining the integrity of space as space. The discomfort Santiago feels here is not a function of a personified or competitive desire but of dimensionality: the simple and expansive flatness of the space works against the human desire to see.
Thus, when Hemingway attempted to explain the novella in a letter to Bernard Berenson, writing that "The sea is the sea. The old man is an old man. The boy is a boy and the fish is a fish. The sharks are all sharks no better and no worse. All the symbolism that people say is shit" (SL 780), he was not only emphasizing the value of a mimetic reading strategy, but re-performing the ethical position of his implied author. Insofar as the novellas simple representation of space limits the type of over-interpretation that would attribute meaning to the space only in terms of something it is not (i.e., a person), Hemingway is attempting to narrativize a relationship to otherness that takes as its ethical source a sincere contemplation of surface. Just as Hemingway warns against "going out too far" in our interpretive ventures, so too does his implied author's version of simple space warn against the interpretive impulse to see through the narrative's surface by turning image into symbol. The Old Man and the Sea thus conditions our imaginative response to otherness by imposing limits on how we read and see spaciousness; it is both a source of freedom but also, importantly, a text whose meaning is structured on its own terms.
Such spaciousness is constituted through paradox. Santiago is both freed by the vast space he navigates and disempowered by it. There is the need, on the one hand, to individuate himself against the spacious tableau and, on the other, to integrate himself within it. In his three days at sea, Santiago grapples with this question of self and place. Santiago's contemplation of space competes against his drive to conquer, master, and kill the marlin. Further, this contemplative participation in vast space eventually gives nuance to his relationship to the marlin, provoking his self-doubt and self-criticism. Santiago moves from desiring to "show him what a man can do and what a man endures" (73) to feeling an obligation to apologize to the marlin, "I'm sorry, fish" (121). This sense of responsibility begins for Santiago in the way he learns to read the simple space of the ecosystem that surrounds him:
He looked across the sea and knew how alone he was now. But he could see the prisms in the deep dark water and the line stretching ahead and the strange undulation of the calm. The clouds were building up now for the trade wind and he looked ahead and saw a flight of wild ducks etching themselves against the sky over the water, then blurring, then etching again and he knew no man was ever alone on the sea. (67)
In the space of this paragraph, Santiago's very way of seeing himself and the world changes. The movement from "alone" (from a sense of self as alienated and exiled and the world as a purportedly human place) to "never alone" (a sense of self as absorbed into a space and the world as a place populated by many orders beyond the human) is also a tentative shift away from a narrative of tragic individualism where the world is "an arena where heroic deeds are possible" (Gurko 64). Dwight Eddins reads the vast space of the sea as "an encounter with nada in all its life-denying force" (72), but here the spacious setting is neither an antagonist to (human) life, nor a meaningless surface upon which the hero might make his mark. The sky, in this moment, becomes a space of signs, of nonhuman markings. The "etching" of the wild ducks dramatizes a textualized space as something written upon but also something which "blurs."
This conception of the text as simultaneously readable and unreadable echoes Hemingway's strategy of ambiguous focalization insofar as it both offers and withholds the reader's interpretive access. It is not Santiago's relationship to the marlin that triggers his sense of ecological community in this moment. Although he is connected to the great fish by the line that stretches out ahead of him, Santiago's recognition that "no man was ever alone on the sea" is engendered through the way in which he reads the space itself. Here we see the spacious text literalized; we see how vast space can both torment and comfort the subject. What Santiago reads when confronted with such a text is the presence of the nonhuman and its potential inscrutability, and what Hemingway minimizes here is the causal connection between the space-as-text and Santiago's realization that he will never be alone. Such an omission--the connection between vision and knowledge, sense and understanding--serves to emphasize space itself as a potential source of meaning. Not simply a figure of connection but an agent, space here appears to speak--to write--for itself.
In fact, the larger significance of this scene is the way the foregrounded space leads Santiago to a momentary recognition of the self's limitations. He now describes his hand, which has been cramping for some time, as "a treachery of one's own body" (68). Having just been confronted with a vision of unreadable and unmasterable otherness in vast space, Santiago interprets his own self as losing control of a rebellious body. The treachery of his cramp forces recognition that his vision of himself as an empowered and unified subject is flawed. That in this sequence Hemingway juxtaposes such a moment of spatial, nonhuman awareness against a scene that emphasizes the very difficulty of "holding the line"--of, literally, holding onto the marlin--once again exposes the friction between the integrity of nature and man's desire to possess and to master the other.
Ryan Hediger locates in this scene what he calls "the cramp of ethics," whereby "the frustrations expressed in this passage show the space between Santiago the desiring person and Santiago the body" (47). Hediger argues that Santiago's cramp is not merely a sign of the disparity between the human's "desire for ... absolute strength and the reality of ... human weakness and mortality" (47), but that the way that Santiago treats his own body as other (4) prompts his arrival at a newly ethical relationship to otherness more generally. The cramped hand is both a sign of the human will to power as well as a painful reminder of the limits of that power; the hand's otherness--that is, its manifestation as something separate from Santiago's will--is ethically productive precisely because it ambiguates the terms of Santiago's mastery over nature. The cramp produces in Santiago a self-critical and self-conscious moment defined not by the abandoning of control, but by the realization that control is shared between the human and nonhuman.
While both Hediger and I agree that Santiago approaches a new mode of ethical awareness in this moment, we differ in our interpretation of its source. The thrust of Hediger's claim is that Santiago learns ethics through a recognition of the human body's otherness--that is, Santiago only needs to acknowledge the other within himself to learn ethical obligation towards the nonhuman. This approach is limited, I think, because it renders the nonhuman elements of the text as secondary; they do not pose any ethical challenge or solution. Hediger's approach does not explain the power of vast space, its role as an agent, or the ways it etches itself onto the human. Instead, by interrogating Hemingway's representation of setting and showing how it oscillates between background and foreground in the text, I am arguing that nonhuman space itself conditions both Santiago's and the reader's response to the other-as- text. In this sense, Santiago's interpretation of his cramp as a form of treachery is built upon his inchoate sense of spaciousness; if the etchings and blurrings in the sky remind him that there are other valuable types of companionship beyond the human, then the cramp extends this critique, reminding him that human control has its limitations and is only one of many possible responses to the sea.
The ethical crux for Santiago centers upon his conflicted relationship to nature's places. His personification of the sea as la mar is a response to what he sees as the destructive views of the younger fishermen, who speak of the sea "as a contestant or a place or even an enemy" (33, my emphasis). While it appears, here, that Santiago's vision of nature precludes the interpretation of space-as-place--that is, the interpretation of space as domesticated and familiarized by the human ego--he does not fully disavow this idea. In fact, Santiago idealizes the conversion of nature into place:
He no longer dreamed of storms, nor of women, nor of great occurrences, nor of great fish, nor fights, nor contests of strength, nor his wife. He only dreamed of places now and of the lions on the beach. They played like young cats in the dusk and he loved them as he loved the boy. He never dreamed about the boy. (27-28, my emphasis)
To dream of nature's places, indeed, to dream of nature as a non-antagonistic place full of play, is to perform the same sort of ethical lapse of which he accuses the younger fishermen. Santiago's dreams of places reveal a proclivity to interpret natural space according to human desires. But his perspective on the younger fishermen also shows that he understands the dangers and potential violence implicit in such an ethical position. In this way Hemingway establishes the ethical pull of simple and vast space. "[T]he long, golden beaches and the white beaches,' and "the high capes and the great brown mountains" and the "white peaks of the Islands rising from the sea" (27), all coalesce to offer a nostalgic vision of free and open space to which Santiago's mind may wander without constraints. And yet, Santiago expresses his distaste for viewing the sea as a place of unconstrained human empowerment, even though he cannot fully relinquish his dreams of nature as what Bachelard would label an intimate immensity. Here, the intersection of ego and eco produces hesitation-the simple space seems to ask to be used, imagined, and freely navigated, but its otherness also resists the interpretive pressures of the human.
In "On the Blue Water: A Gulf Stream Letter," Hemingway remarks, "And after a while the danger of others is the only danger and there is no end to it nor any pleasure in it nor does it help to think about it. But there is great pleasure in being on the sea, in the unknown wild suddenness of a great fish in his life and death which he lives for you in an hour while your strength is harnessed to his: and there is satisfaction in conquering this thing which rules the sea it lives in" (BL 243-244). Whereas Hemingway confesses here that his aim is the conquest of nature, Santiago eventually comes to doubt this ethic. In the article, Hemingway appears to suggest that the great fish works as an ethical substitute for the human other--the pleasure-in-danger it provides in the putatively apolitical realm of the sea helps the fisherman cope with his disempowerment in the violently politicized human realm. In the novella, however, the ocean provides no respite from ethics, and the danger is not pleasurable. Santiago's confrontation with the sea gradually broadens his sense of responsibility to the world and thus reveals to him the possibility of imagining himself in other ways--neither as conquerer, nor victim, but as an ecological participant for whom the desire to individuate himself is balanced against the creative power of the spacious foreground. Santiago sets out to show the world "what a man can do" (73), but the world also teaches him what he can do.
The narrative ends with Santiago once again dreaming, marking a small but momentous step towards a more biocentric ethic. As Manolin sits beside the beaten, exhausted fisherman, the narrator offers a final glimpse into Santiago's mind: "The old man was dreaming about the lions" (140). For Steven Florczyk, the scene represents a nostalgic culmination, "a desire to recover a past, a world where we may live according to the rules of a simpler yet more fulfilling time" (164). According to Beegel, the dream is Edenic, "a place where viewing nature as a contestant or an enemy is no longer possible, and love alone remains (156). But I think Hemingway's aesthetic of omission adds something more to this final scene. It is not merely a vision of human and nonhuman interdependence, nor a wholly primitivist ideal of simple living divorced from modernity. This final dream is not merely a reiteration of Santiago's earlier dreams of places--in this final image Hemingway simplifies Santiago's earlier dreams by omitting "the long yellow beach" (90) and all other spatial references. Why are the lions the only thing left? Such simplification dramatizes the friction between the anthropocentric and biocentric ethics that have informed the text up to this point. The ambiguity that results from this simplification solicits from the reader the same sort of ethically productive hesitation that the vast spaces have inspired in the protagonist.
The elimination of space in Santiago's final dream can suggest a reclamation of the individual subject's imaginative power. By subordinating space to the silent periphery, Hemingway is, in one sense, maintaining its status as background. Space becomes a context we take for granted, something that need not be mentioned. The dream itself is thus foregrounded--appearing as a sign of the human imagination, of man's ability to cope with and overcome the pressures of an overwhelming natural world. As Santiago says, "A man can be destroyed but not defeated" (114).
On the other hand, insofar as the conspicuous absence of places in this final dream is also a revision of Santiago's previous dreams, it suggests a modest ethical turn in Santiago's way of thinking about the natural world. Given that the text has in several key scenes dramatized the limits of an anthropocentric vision of nature, Hemingway's subtraction of place from Santiago's dream suggests how vast space has moved, in Santiago's mind, from an object against which human desire is foregrounded to an unimaginable and unnarratable other. At the end of his three-day trial upon the sea, Santiago is unable to imagine those vast natural spaces which were once such treasured places in his mind. That space here is disimagined--that his dream has no setting, only lions and nothing else paradoxically foregrounds the otherness of space and suggests that it cannot be fully mobilized by the human mind.
Here the text's disavowal of space-as-place through the dream sequence can be understood as a step towards a new biocentric responsibility. Earlier, the marlin has appeared to Santiago as "very strange" (74), and in the face of its strangeness he tries, unsuccessfully, to master and possess it. Santiago's encounter with the marlin has caused him to be self-conscious not only about his own physical prowess but about the limitations of his knowledge of the vast sea space. The dream, then, is in a sense a different response to the interpretive challenge that the marlin had posed. To disimagine the space is to maintain its otherness by attempting to separate it from human structures of meaning. Santiago has moved from a vision of vast space as a woman--la mar--to a new glimpse of space as non-synthetic, ineffable other. This is not to say that he unmistakably forgoes the will to power--that appropriative impulse which undergirds both the act of fishing as well as the reader's interpretive gestures-but that the narration of his dream now prompts the reader to recognize that such acts have the potential to violate the integrity of the other.
The pain and remorse that Santiago feels after the sharks desecrate the marlins flesh provides the reader with an opportunity to evaluate not only the degree of responsibility Santiago takes for his failed attempt to master nature but, more importantly, how he ultimately conceives of man's right relationship to the nonhuman world. One might notice, through numerous iterations, that when the fisherman apologizes to the mutilated marlin, the apology is always constructed through spatial terms: '"I shouldn't have gone out so far, fish" he said. 'Neither for you nor for me. I'm sorry, fish'" (121); "'Half fish" he said. 'Fish that you were. I am sorry that I went too far out. I ruined us both'" (127). Santiago's apologies do not hinge on the act of hunting but, rather, on the violation of space. To have gone "too far out" is to navigate vast space without any self-awareness. It is to believe in the American myth of man's mastery of and entitlement to the space, to imagine oneself as Ahab, "one captain.., blindly seeking with a six inch blade to reach the fathom-deep life of the whale" (Melville 152).
Indeed, from the very beginning of the story, Santiago plans to go "far out" (14), but only after his ordeal is the qualifying and evaluative adverb "too" added to the phrase. Florczyk argues that this recognition "reinforce[s] the need to rely upon the community within which he operates" and that his "participation in the natural world implies this larger responsibility that involves consequences regarding himself and other members of this community" (158). Certainly, Santiago's realization of his limits lends itself to a renewed appreciation of others, especially Manolin, whose presence underscores the importance of interdependence within human relationships. But to go "too far out" upon the sea is to glimpse, first and foremost, a new ethical relationship with the nonhuman other. In other words, Santiago learns responsibility towards the ecological community, not just the human community. In his apology to the marlin, then, we witness a change in how Santiago views his relationship to the sea. Whereas initially he understands the spaciousness of the sea as a backdrop against which man's unimpeachable freedom--to navigate, to master, to interpret- can be measured, he now recognizes the sea as something which has called him to account for his trespass.
What changes, then, is how Santiago comes to imagine vast space, and thus the ethical quality of his relationship to the simple, inscrutable other:
The wind is our friend, anyway, he thought. Then he added, sometimes. And the great sea with our friends and our enemies. And bed, he thought. Bed is my friend. Just bed, he thought. Bed will be a great thing. It is easy when you are beaten, he thought. I never knew how easy it was. And what beat you, he thought. "Nothing" he said aloud. "I went out too far." (132-133)
In the moment of Santiago's greatest suffering, when he is weak, exhausted, and beaten, he exhibits a conspicuous interpretive anxiety as well. The fisherman is no longer sure exactly how to characterize the sea. Whereas at the beginning of the narrative, he is certain of the vast space as la mar, a woman, now his impulse to anthropomorphize is at best equivocal. The grammatical breakdown of the third sentence--less a declarative statement than an image that now only exists in a state of potentiality--suggests that Santiago can no longer clearly communicate an anthropocentric interpretation of space. Although he does not fully relinquish his view of the natural world as a place of friends and enemies, his internal monologue conveys a powerful element of self-doubt.
In addition, Hemingway's paratactic patterning of the passage works to underscore Santiago's self-doubt. The prevalence of "and" as a conjunctive link between the protagonist's thoughts has two related effects: first, insofar as the conjunction carries with it a desire for constant supplementation, the sequencing suggests that Santiago is searching for meaning rather than subscribing to a particularly comprehensive view of the world. Without the connective logic that has previously exemplified Santiago's view of the sea as "something that gave or withheld great favors, and if she did wild or wicked things it was because she could not help them" (33, my emphasis), Hemingway shows a protagonist who is much less convinced by his own imaginings. The passage is more an anxious rehearsal of old ideas than an expression of a coherent ethical scheme. The prose marks a moment of hesitation.
Hemingway's parataxis also aligns Santiago's interpretive anxieties with the reader's. Just as the protagonist's encounter with vast space causes him to question his anthropocentric impulse, and thus the articulation of his right relationship to nature, so does the recalcitrant simplicity of the passage solicit our generous imaginings and yet still withhold itself from us. (What is the equivalence between the "greatness" of "sea" and "bed;' or the specific antecedent of the pronoun "it;' for example?) Like Santiago, we find ourselves in a position where the simple text (the sea, the space, the sky) resists the pressures of the human by retaining its otherness, urging us to question the limits of our interpretive reach.
Indeed, Santiago begins to disimagine the sea. Here the sea reappears less as a place of friends and enemies and more as a nonhuman space, not as something that can only be associated with human perception and use, but as a simple fact in and of itself. Thus the novella affords us an opportunity to recognize the potential violence of interpretation, while gesturing towards the necessity of ecological and aesthetic appropriation. If the end of the fisherman's journey marks the latent beginnings of his biocentrism, it also marks an ethical mode constituted through the hermeneutic protocols of Hemingway's simple and recalcitrant images of space. Such spaciousness interrogates our interpretive freedom--our impulse to master the text and make it mean through our imaginations--even as its rhetorical manifestation simultaneously testifies to the enduring value of such imagination.
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(1.) In The Poetics of Space, although Bachelard focuses productively upon "quite simple images of felicitous space" (xxxi) and conceives of space as something to be read like a text, he nevertheless figures simple spaces only in terms of their positive use-value for the human imagination. According to Andrew Thacker, in Moving Through Modernity: Space and Geography in Modernism, in these simple spaces one is "unable to imagine conflict" (17). I agree with Thacker's implication that a space represented through stylistically simple means can unsettle the reader as much as it can comfort him or her.
(2.) In narrative theory, "synthetic" refers to the idea that the text is a constructed object, existing not for itself but primarily as an instrument for another agent's rhetorical purposes.
(3.) I am indebted to James Phelan's definition of lyric as "one, somebody telling somebody else on some occasion for some purpose that something is--a situation, an emotion, a perception, an attitude, a belief; and, two, somebody telling somebody else on some occasion about his or her meditations on something. Furthermore, in both kinds of lyric, the authorial audience is less in the position of observer and judge and more in the position of participant. While we recognize that the speaker is different from us, we move from that recognition toward fusion with the speaker" (635).
(4.) Santiago tries to "gentle the fingers" of his hand (44), but we learn that it is "[t]he sun and his steady movement of his fingers" (50) that ultimately uncramp the hand. According to Hediger, Santiago is performing a "careful inhabitation of his body" (47), and this leads him towards ethical obligation.
University of Toronto
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|Publication:||The Hemingway Review|
|Article Type:||Critical essay|
|Date:||Mar 22, 2012|
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