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I first read this short novel as a teenager, back in the day when I did so because I was forced to for assigned school reading over the summer, instead of wanting to for knowledge, entertainment, and personal insight. I rushed through the words back then, so that I could find my way back to spending time outdoors with friends and who knows what else, doing anything to avoid keeping my nose buried in a book. How times change.
I’ve often wondered how you “review” a classic, a book that has earned the Pulitzer Prize. Is it even right to broach elements that felt unappealing to you? Alas, whether we’re famous authors or daily readers, we are still each a human being with thoughts, emotions, and opinions that are worthy. And in a serendipitous way, it almost feels as though that’s exactly what this novel has portrayed to me four decades after first reading it.
As an author, I’ve used an app, appropriately named “The Hemingway App”, that aims to emulate the succinct and clean writing style of Hemingway himself. Ironically, however, I found that a lot of the prose in this novel, especially once Santiago was out at sea (and perhaps because he was approaching a state of delirium) quite repetitive. But this was the only qualm I had with the story. It was uniquely written without a single chapter break. I continued on from page to page without a pause until the final word. This made it difficult to put down, for fear of losing my place, but perhaps this was an early version of book marketing at work. But enough about semantics, let’s talk about the story itself and the messages it conveyed to me.
The relationship between Santiago and Manolin is an important one, as it demonstrates to me the elements of human need that spans any age gap. Referred to as “the old man” and “the boy” throughout a majority of the story, it’s probably not coincidental that names were unimportant. Rather, it was the presence of enduring human conditions regardless of our names that was most essential to focus upon.
There is an underlying element of hope that persists throughout the pages of this novel: by Santiago as he hunts “the fish”, by the boy who we get the sense has always continued to believe in the old man’s successful return to port after he does, by the marlin itself who can’t speak verbally but who does so effectively through his actions and behavior beneath the water’s surface.
This story balances struggle with self-confidence, a literal and metaphorical interpretation occurring as the old man battles the marlin on his own in the great vastness of the sea. As he moves farther from the shore, his mention of the boy diminishes in frequency. The solitary nature of the sea supplies the old man with the time and space to contemplate those conversations that are perhaps the most important ones in our lives, those we conduct with ourselves.
There is an ebb and flow, not unlike the sea, that occurred with each passing event in this novel. Hope swells and then wanes with each apparent success and imminent failure. And in the end, success is not measured by the prize we display to the world. Rather, it’s that intangible and deep feeling of satisfaction–of having done something worthy with diligence, persistence, and conviction–that makes our hearts swell with pride. Others may offer their praise for our efforts, or they may remain quietly observant of our endeavors. But, what’s most important and arguably can’t be denied, is that what we do impacts those around us in ways that inspire those same qualities we portrayed to the world through our actions. And we have the choice whether those choices align with what’s most important to us. We decide what legacy is left behind for others to learn from and follow.
Over the span of forty years since I first begrudgingly consumed this novel, quickly and without much thought, “The Old Man and the Sea” reminds me that it’s never too late to make a difference or become the best and truest version of yourself.
Dave’s Rating: ☕️☕️☕️
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