The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway Read Free Book Online

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    â€œHe’s all right. He says some pretty funny things. Last time I had dinner with him we talked about Hoffenheimer. ‘The trouble is,’ he said, ‘he’s a garter snapper.’ That’s not bad.”

    â€œThat’s not bad.”

    â€œHe’s through now,” Harvey went on. “He’s written about all the things he knows, and now he’s on all the things he doesn’t know.”

    â€œI guess he’s all right,” I said. “I just can’t read him.”

    â€œOh, nobody reads him now,” Harvey said, “except the people that used to read the Alexander Hamilton Institute.”

    â€œWell,” I said. “That was a good thing, too.”

    â€œSure,” said Harvey. So we sat and thought deeply for a while.

    â€œHave another port?”

    â€œAll right,” said Harvey.

    â€œThere comes Cohn,” I said. Robert Cohn was crossing the street.

    â€œThat moron,” said Harvey. Cohn came up to our table. “Hello, you bums,” he said.

    â€œHello, Robert,” Harvey said. “I was just telling Jake here that you’re a moron.”

    â€œWhat do you mean?”

    â€œTell us right off. Don’t think. What would you rather do if you could do anything you wanted?”

    Cohn started to consider.

    â€œDon’t think. Bring it right out.”

    â€œI don’t know,” Cohn said. “What’s it all about, anyway?”

    â€œI mean what would you rather do. What comes into your head first. No matter how silly it is.”

    â€œI don’t know,” Cohn said. “I think I’d rather play football again with what I know about handling myself, now.”

    â€œI misjudged you,” Harvey said. “You’re not a moron. You’re only a case of arrested development.”

    â€œYou’re awfully funny, Harvey,” Cohn said. “Someday somebody will push your face in.”

    Harvey Stone laughed. “You think so. They won’t, though. Because it wouldn’t make any difference to me. I’m not a fighter.”

    â€œIt would make a difference to you if anybody did it.”

    â€œNo, it wouldn’t. That’s where you make your big mistake. Because you’re not intelligent.”

    â€œCut it out about me.”

    â€œSure,” said Harvey. “It doesn’t make any difference to me. You don’t mean anything to me.”

    â€œCome on, Harvey,” I said. “Have another porto.”

    â€œNo,” he said. “I’m going up the street and eat. See you later, Jake.”

    He walked out and up the street. I watched him crossing the street through the taxis, small, heavy, slowly sure of himself in the traffic.

    â€œHe always gets me sore,” Cohn said. “I can’t stand him.”

    â€œI like him,” I said. “I’m fond of him. You don’t want to get sore at him.”

    â€œI know it,” Cohn said. “He just gets on my nerves.”

    â€œWrite this afternoon?”

    â€œNo. I couldn’t get it going. It’s harder to do than my first book. I’m having a hard time handling it.”

    The sort of healthy conceit that he had when he returned from America early in the spring was gone. Then he had been sure of his work, only with these personal longings for adventure. Now the sureness was gone. Somehow I feel I have not shown Robert Cohn clearly. The reason is that until he fell in love with Brett, I never heard him make one remark that would, in any way, detach him from other people. He was nice to watch on the tennis court, he had a good body, and he kept it in shape; he handled his cards well at bridge, and he had a funny sort of undergraduate quality about him. If he were in a crowd nothing he said stood out. He wore what used to be called polo shirts at school, and may be called that still, but he was not professionally youthful. I do