Duds

It was of those January afternoons, where the light was fading, but hadn’t yet gone, and the sky wasn’t much more than a dull, warm gray, where everything was still and quiet, where a few snowflakes had begun to fall, feeling forgotten, a whisper of a coming storm, where Harris sat in his new spacesuit on the front porch, enjoying what would be his last beer and its accompanying cigarette. If he would miss anything after his trip, he had decided, it would be his front porch, and his chair, and getting to sit and watch the neighborhood and the fields.

His neighborhood was a fringe cul de sac at the edge of Mallory, Ohio, not much more than a few houses and a couple empty lots, circled around a little bubble of road that no one other than the people who lived there came down. Past the cul de sac on all sides were thick fields of snow; in the spring, summer, and early fall, they’d go from soft, thick white plains to lush waves of corn.

The only signal of civilization, other than the St. Joe’s steeple and Malone’s Depot, the three-story brown and red-brick department store, the tallest building in Mallory, peeking over the skeletal trees that grew through Mallory, was Pike’s Station, about two miles southeast of Harris’ home. If he leaned forward and peered around the corner of his porch, he could almost see the launchpad and its office, a structure that looked both naturally industrial and out of place in Mallory, like a marooned oil rig. He’d walked almost halfway there a few days ago, as a test, and had only fallen once.

He reached into the front pocket of his suit and pulled out, after a few clumsy attempts with the suit’s thick gloves, a crumpled pack of Blue Moon cigarettes and a chewed-up brown lighter. Harris flicked the striker for a good minute before getting a consistent flame, stuck a cigarette in his mouth, and brought it up. He inhaled, puffed, and put the package and the lighter back in the front pocket. He exhaled and felt himself sink into the suit and the chair.

The suit was a replica of the V22 EMU’s, which had been standard issue since 2056 for all Orion astronauts and colonists. Unlike earlier iterations, the V22’s were heavier, bulkier, meant for extended stays in space. As the Colonial Administration had expanded its reach, more and more of its expeditions lasted far longer, and took both astronauts and colonists alike to harsher and harsher cosmic corners. Right now, a hot spot was Trident Orbital, a recently-developed mining station just off Neptune. From what Harris had been reading online, the word was that the Administration planned to turn Trident into a kind of threshold settlement, a staging ground for extra-system exploration. In less than seventy years, they’d managed to get human beings settled in or near every planet in the system. Now was the time to invest in what they had, and start making preparations to one day go beyond Sol.

An alarm chirped, and a soft digital readout of the time in pale red numbers flashed 4:30 on his helmet. He sighed and, resting a hand on his cane and slowly standing up, made his way inside.

Harris stood at his kitchen table, taking inventory on his pack. It was a brown rucksack, something he’d had for years, taken on camping trips with friends and family and the like. Most of them were gone now – either moved from Mallory, or passed. He’d loaded it with dry goods – crackers, dried fruit, boxes of macaroni and cheese – and several big jugs of water. Just in case he got time to eat.

He was about to zip up the pack when he realized he’d forgotten something. Harris went down the hall from the kitchen into his room. He crouched, with effort and phantom pains in his knees, and pulled out a box of newspapers.

The Mallory Times had been discontinued years ago, but as a kid, he’d saved most of the editions. There were headlines like FIRST ORION LAUNCH FROM HONOLULU; TRAPPED ORION CREW RESCUED ON IO AFTER THREE WEEKS; ORION LAUNCHES COMMUNITY DEPOT BRAND.

Most of them were junk. Not junk, that wasn’t the right word… but he couldn’t take them with. He sifted through until he found one, a bit yellowed. The front page was an old digital photo of an empty field that read MALLORY SELECTED FOR REGIONAL SPACEPORT. The date in the upper right corner read October, 2024.

He picked up the paper and held it for a moment, skimming parts of the article.

thirty-third Midwestern station of its kind…

…a great opportunity for the small community…

…hope to let more and more from the Breadbasket, who some say have been overlooked in past exploration efforts, join in the noble pursuit of space travel…

…local testing begins in March of 2025…

He folded it, carefully, and went back into the kitchen and tucked it in the side of his pack. It was the closest thing he had to a ticket… but it wasn’t, and if anyone found him, he’d probably be taken into custody and returned to Earth. But at least it was something to read.

Something padded against his door.

Harris went over to and opened it. A plump tabby with huge eyes and big paws was staring up at him.

“She’s not home yet?”

The cat meowed, and wended his way between his legs and into his kitchen. He didn’t know the cat’s name, he just knew that he belonged to a woman about his age who lived across the cul de sac. She let him out every day, no matter the weather, and it didn’t really seem like the thing minded anyways, because he usually found a way into Harris’ house no matter what. He’d come home countless times over the past few years to find the cat laying in his armchair in the living room, or pawing through one of the cupboards. The best way to get him to sit still was feeding him. He liked macaroni the best, that put him right to sleep.

“I don’t have a lotta time,” he closed to door and headed to the cupboards. “I’m leaving soon, you know? So you’re gonna have to find your own way out.”

The cat stared at him from the scuffed linoleum floor. It licked its lips.

“Mhmm. Right.”

Harris got over to his fridge and opened the door. He’d made some macaroni earlier in the morning and hadn’t been able to finish it all. He took out the blue plastic bowl, stripped off the plastic wrap, and set it down. The cat looked at the food, then at him. He meowed.

“I’m not gonna microwave it, you don’t touch it until it’s cold anyway.”

The cat meowed again.

Harris stood for a moment, and then he sighed, and bent down, grabbed the bowl, and carried it over to the microwave. “Whaddyou think, thirty seconds? A minute?”

The cat didn’t respond, and he keyed in thirty seconds.

He went back over to the kitchen table and took a look at his inventory one more time. He wanted to make sure he had enough, just in case.

The microwave beeped, and he came over, took out the bowl of macaroni, and set it down where the cat was. He stared at it for a moment before flicking his tail, wandering over to Harris’ chair, hopping up, and curling into a ball. In a few moments he was asleep.

Harris watched him for a moment before going back to his pack. He stared at it for a minute or so before sighing, going over to the chair, picking up the cat – who groaned with kind of absent yawn – and sat down in the chair, reclining back. He closed his eyes for a moment.

Harris woke up with a start. He was reclined in his chair, with the cat curled on his lap in a warm puddle.

Someone knocked on the door.

He groaned, and carefully got up, and made his way to the door.

It was a blonde girl, short hair, freckles, in a black coat, plaid skirt, and boots. She was holding a neatly-wrapped little package the size of a shoebox under her arm. A ways behind her, parked in the curve of the cul de sac, was a long black car with a purple flag.

“Hey, Mr. Harris,” she said, a waver of surprise under her voice. She looked him up and down. “Going somewhere?”

“Not for a while.” He looked around her at the car. “You drive that thing everywhere?”

“What?” she followed his eyes and turned back around, shaking her head. “Oh. No. But we just finished with a burial, and we’re about to close-up for the weekend, so my Dad had me stop by to give you this.”

She offered the package. Harris took it.

“He said your Mom left it for you to have after everything. We shoulda gotten it to you earlier but I kept forgetting.” Her face flushed a bit. “Sorry.”

Harris waved a hand. He turned the package over. Shook it a bit.

“How’re your exams?” he didn’t look up.

The girl’s shoulders sagged, slight, but heavy. She sighed. “They suck.”

He laughed, and looked up at her. “I remember mine. No fun.” His fingers tapped on the box for a moment. “Where are you looking at getting placed?”

“I wanna get stationed at Saturn. Maybe the C-Ring, or Cassini Station.”

“Geology?”

“Xenobiology,” she said it quiet, like she was embarrassed.

Harris nodded. “Cassini Station is good for that – that’s where Brandford started his micro-terra project. They’ve got a good reputation.”

“I know,” she said, scratching the back of her neck. “I read all his books.”

Harris got the feeling he’d just tried to give advice to someone who already knew where they were going, what they were doing, and how to get there, more than he ever would. Nothing ever made him feel like an old man more than that.

He could feel his own face flush a bit. He coughed. “Well. Then you got nothin’ to worry about. Most kids don’t even bother studying for the exams now, and you’re doing extra reading? You’re set.”

“Yeah,” she said. She looked at him. His suit. Inside the house. “Are you gonna be back any time soon, Mr. Harris?”

He felt a lump. He didn’t expect a lump, but it was there, and he cleared his throat and shook his head. “I don’t think so. Maybe. But I don’t think so.”

She hugged him suddenly. Harris put his hands up, and the small push from the girl and the weight from the suit almost made him tip over. He steadied himself on the door frame with a gloved hand.

The girl said something to him, something he couldn’t quite make out, and even if he had, he wouldn’t have known what to say. So he hugged her back, tight.

“Okay,” she pulled away and sniffed. “It was nice seeing you.”

“You too.”

She headed down the walk to the long black car, and stopped for a moment to wave. He waved back. She got in and drove down the street towards the empty town.

With his rucksack cinched and the shoebox-gift in his hands, he left a note on the woman’s door, just a short sentence explaining where her cat was.

He wandered over to the edge of the field and stared out at Pike’s Station. The rucksack was awkward, his shoulders were already sore, and his knees hurt. He put the box under his arm and leaned on his cane a bit.

The black, skraggly outlines of barren trees and copses lined the left edge of the field, but for the most part, it was a totally flat plain, boasting nothing bigger than a few hundred humps of prairie grass that hunkered down across its space like sleeping golems.

At the other end of the field, a solid two miles or so away, was the thick, dark skeleton of Pike’s Station. Steam vented in fat clouds from a dozen smoke stacks and shafts along its body. Bulbs of light, like Christmas lights, dotted it. Some were the green, soft pulsings of the launchpad; others were the red glares atop the highest points, markers of warning to potential air and spacecraft; more than few were the warm amber of offices and dormitories for the live-in crew, administrative and maintenance, of the station; and there were dozens of white-yellows that were simply studded all across its bodice. Harris didn’t really know what they did, but they looked nice.

He stood there for a while, cold beginning to seep into his fingertips and toes. A few flakes tickled the tip of his nose and cheeks. His breath came in puffs as he stood at the edge of the field, with snow that was up to halfway above his shins.

He took the box from under his arm and ripped open the wrapping. The paper was old, pale blue and white, decorated with little winter swirls and penguins with scarves.

Harris took off the cover and set in on the ground. Inside was a yellow note. He picked it up and read:

Dear Harris,

I know you won’t be around long after I go. So I wanted to give you something to keep you warm on your trip. Malone sold it to me at a discount a couple weeks ago. Try it on, spaceman!

I love you.

-Mom

Underneath the note was a small, simple, black knit winter cap. On the front was the Orion logo, a boxy spaceship with engines whooshing behind it against orange, white, and blue shield, set on a background of stars. Harris picked it up and turned it over. He opened his helmet’s visor and pulled it down on his head. A little warmth trickled into his ears.

He stuffed the note in his breast pocket, set the box down, and looked back at his house. The cul de sac. St. Joe’s Steeple, the department store, sitting above the trees. He wished he could’ve said goodbye to someone before he left.

He turned back around and started, slow, into the field. And soon he was gone.

The Prince Book Review

The Prince is a seminal work of Western political thought, written in the early 16th century by notorious pouty political bad-boy and advisor to the Florentine Republic, Niccolò Machiavelli.  The book was controversial in its time – and remains so, to a degree, in ours – for its central thesis, which is that a ruler, a prince, must approach their station of power with a shrewd, cynical, and non-moralistic eye and appetite.

The book was originally dedicated to the Medici Family, and Machiavelli intended it as a kind of new-age handbook for up-and-coming, or even present, rulers of the time.

There are plenty of juicy ideas in The Prince, but the one I found coming up more and more, either in name or reference, was this this one:

There’s no overarching “good” way to rule, but there are smart ways.

Machiavelli lived in a time where princes and other rulers were ostensibly bound by a code of morality and ethics, usually and unsurprisingly originating from Catholic doctrine, or at least influence.  It was implicitly understood that all rulers would do what was right in the eyes of a higher power, as well as in the eyes of the people they ruled.  Clearly, as history may show, this wasn’t often the case, and there are many examples of princes and other rulers who either abused this morality and manipulated it as a trojan horse for their own aims and ends, or ignored it altogether, apparently and completely content to forsake themselves in the eyes of God and history to achieve whatever they set out to do.  Because of these loopholes—it’s difficult to govern on the honor system, because who watches the watcher?—it becomes pretty clear in The Prince that Machiavelli saw this kind of moral stipulation as a hindrance to political thought – the prince ought to take things as they are, not as they ought to be.  To obey a set of abstract moral principles that viewed the world and its people idealistically was a clear path to ruin.  The only way to govern effectively was realistically, which meant, at times, undertaking immoral action to begin, further, or codify one’s rule.

This immoral action was variable in its forms, but not limited to: wiping out noble families who pose a threat to the prince’s rule; using fear and shock as a means to keep the public in line; allying yourself with that same public, not out of common charity, but necessity in case you need to use them against the noble class; joining wars on whatever side is clear to win; and perhaps most famously and Machiavellian at all, making absolutely certain that if you have an enemy, you completely and totally obliterate them:

“Upon this, one has to remark that men ought either to be well treated or crushed, because they can avenge themselves of lighter injuries, of more serious ones they cannot; therefore the injury that is to be done to a man ought to be of such a kind that one does not stand in fear of revenge.” (Machiavelli, pg. 9).

All of this, at face value, is incredibly cruel, and could even, through certain contexts, be called evil.  But what I think you have to keep in mind, and what it seems Machiavelli knew as well, is that even if you behave morally, you should not expect your enemies, or even your friends, to do the same.  In this way, Machiavelli’s thought is incredibly modern—whether that’s because of The Prince’s influence even today, or because human nature can be both self-effacing and yet so fundamentally naked is up for debate.  But in our present day, which is markedly absent of any overarching moral dictum that is universally followed, it’s well understood that there are people, both in government and in the common and everyday, who will manipulate a system’s rules to gain wealth, or fame, or most important of all, power, regardless of how it affects others – and they often do this while flying the same moral banner as everyone else.

What’s notable, for me, at least in reading The Prince, was how it clashed against the view of Machiavelli as I’d heard/seen of him through cultural osmosis.  I’d always heard his name spoken in a kind of hush, or at least disdain, like he’d written against all the good and upstanding cultural values of the modern world and invariably turned politics into what it is today – a fierce and cold grab for power between individuals and entities who want nothing more than to dominate their people and obliterate their opponents.  When people hear the term Machiavellian, it connotes a sinister, shadowy figure, plotting in the background against friends and enemies alike, wringing their hands in the dark until their day in the sun comes and they’re allowed to exercise tyrannical power disguised as intelligent politics.

It doesn’t help that one of the more infamous political celebrities in European history – Henry VIII – cited The Prince in his decision to form the Anglican Church.  Later thinkers, like Rousseau, even classified The Prince as a satire, because in no way could anyone write such a work and not intend it to be a kind of exaggerated joke played on the upper classes for sport.

If there’s anything necessarily critical I can say of Machiavelli’s book, it’s that most of his examples are relatively obscure to someone not versed in 16th century Italian geopolitics.  Of course, he wrote The Prince as a handbook for the Italian nobility of the day, so it makes sense that his references and examples of what to do and what not to do would be as specific as possible, so they’d be highly comprehensible and tangible to his audience.  Nowadays, though, that specificity is a bit difficult to weed through, though I found if you try and take in the names, but focus more on what is being said, the examples become a bit more lucid. 

I’m going to end with a few ideas that I came to me while I was reading.  Whenever I’m reading any kind of book, I like to try and keep track of any ideas that come up, and either are totally separate from the content of the book, or could be, what I think, new additions to it, new ideas to add.  So, with The Prince, here are some modern addendums that can be made by porting over the concepts he uses. 

One idea is The Rule of the Bargaining Law.  Briefly stated, this means:

It is more often beneficial than not for a leader to go against their own people, without the people knowing, and under the guise of extraordinary circumstances, leverage a massive amount of power that will inevitably rankle the people to such an extent, open revolt is the only visible alternative.  At this point, the leader will begin to roll back the extreme measures they installed – to the applause of his people.  

This is a classic bargaining technique – introduce a figure so ridiculous that the other person will, by instinct, immediately recoil and demand a lower figure.  But a lower figure from something ridiculous is still expensive, and the first man, the introducer, comes off richer from this engagement.

Another is that of Singular Powers:

You should view your government as a monarch, with its own persona, and interests.  If democracies were truly dynamic, they would be prone to large-scale fluctuations and rendered nearly inoperable.

And the final is the Longrun Theory:

Political parties/movements can’t just be viewed in their present day incarnations – they must be taken on a holistic, temporal basis that allows for an evaluation of their long-term arcs.

All in all, for anyone who’s interested in political philosophy, or even just politics and its influences in general, I’d recommend The Prince.  It might be a bit obscure at times, but it’s shaped the modern political landscape for better, or for worse, and that makes it worth a read.

-Bibliography-

Machiavelli, Niccolo. The Prince. Antonio Blado d’Asola, 1532.

Ernest Hemingway’s “Hills Like White Elephants” and the Central Metaphor

Ernest Hemingway’s 1927 short story “Hills Like White Elephants,” is a famous work of American short fiction that is often used as an example not only of Hemingway’s Iceberg Theory style of writing, but also of how a governing metaphor can underpin a story and shape the scenery, characters, and plot, giving the entire narrative a kind of depth and dimension that would be hard, if not impossible, to replicate without the implementation of the metaphor in the first place. The purpose of this essay, however, is not to review the well-known story, nor to discuss Hemingway and his Iceberg Theory, nor the use of the particular metaphor really at all. It is instead an attempt to demonstrate a personal theory of mine – the central metaphor. I will do this by re-contextualizing Hemingway’s story through my own personal interpretation, using supporting evidence, and by the end, will have hopefully shown the utility and danger of this theory.

First, what do I mean by the central metaphor?

My idea of the central metaphor is a subjective interpretation that must be supported at least somewhat adequately by its own internal logic. It is a means for the reader to truly individualize, through both creative subjectivity and a personal sense of rational connection, their interpretation and understanding of the work.

This central metaphor functions in the same way as a critical lens, i.e. a Marxist lens, a feminist lens, a capitalist lens, a Christian lens, etc., in the way that it is a particular lens that can be used to analyze, through a set of specific criteria, most any given work.

But the central metaphor differs in the sense that it cannot, and should not, fit into one category. While a Marxist lens may only approach art with the intention of fitting it into a proletariat/bourgeoisie dialectic, or a Christian lens may immediately seek to pinpoint the messiah figure, or the God stand-in, the central metaphor must be a truly personal reading of the work. Much like an individual’s own faculties of perception, the central metaphor can and most likely will involve bits and pieces of other lenses. But it can and will and must also involve that reader’s own memories, past experiences, personal beliefs and practices, as well as what and how they have learned to interpret and understand works through their own education, whether institutional, self-guided, or both.

The theory of the central metaphor is one that is not new, and the idea of a governing metaphor has existed as long as human beings have told stories to each other. However, this particular iteration, my particular iteration, is meant to be a reconfiguration and a re-purposement of that idea. It is meant to mean a more subjective, reader-based interpretation of the observed work, rather than an over-arching theory or staunch proposition. The author acknowledges that the obvious may have been restated within this conception, and they ask for forgiveness and patience if that is the case.

Simply put, the central metaphor is what you make to be the meaning of this story. This meaning must be supported, but it is yours alone, because only you could bring it into form.

As I’ve said, I understand that this is a big restatement of the obvious. Clearly, everyone has a personal interpretation of a piece of artwork – it’s the starting point for our entire understanding of art in general. And because our own personal interpretations are often flawed, or fall short of adequately describing and discussing work, we use lenses, like the ones I’ve mentioned before, to further bolster our claims.

My attempt with the idea of the central metaphor is to try and cement the PERSONAL, the READER’s own subjectivity, in the pantheon of lenses. I believe this is the most powerful lens of all, as it is the master lens from which all others derive. And in my own schooling, I’ve seen too many instances of people, students and professors alike, simply delegating the thoughtwork of analysis to the tools, and not to themselves, the craftsmen and craftswomen. It’s easy to use lenses as a comfortable surrogate for our ideas – it is much more difficult to use these lenses to augment our own theories, as our own theories are often seen as crude, or even vulgar.

With that being said, here is my effort to use my own personal lens to analyze “Hills Like White Elephants”.

I consider myself a writer. I’ve been practicing since I was young, about five years old, and writing has formed the backbone of my personality for a very long time, much like a pro-sports player’s athleticism, both practiced and genetic, would form and shape their persona as well. Because of this, I often, both consciously and unconsciously, approach subjects with the eyes and mind of a writer first.

I’d like to make the argument that the central metaphor of “Hills Like White Elephants” could be an almost allegorical account of Hemingway’s Iceberg Theory, emphasized through its scene construction, characters, and overarching plot, which all serves to ultimately relate his relationship with his own writing process, and, more importantly, his stories.

A very common, almost sickeningly-repeated, phrase among writers is “Kill your babies.” This is a graphic metaphor which essentially means, “If it’s not working, even if you really like it, and a lot of times especially if you really like it, take it out.” Another iteration would be “Murder your darlings.” This was supposedly originated by the Cornish writer Arthur Quiller-Couch.

Coincidentally enough, this phrase is sometimes—erroneously, though understandably—attributed to Hemingway, most likely because of his proclivity to relatively sparse, succinct, almost barren prose. His Iceberg Theory was to cut out as much as possible from his work, in order to challenge readers, to make them look for the mass of hidden meaning that lay under the water of the visible writing.

“Hills Like White Elephants” is, again, an oft-cited example of Hemingway’s prose and his Iceberg Theory. There is little description of the scene, though what little there is manages to convey striking imagery. Dialog tags such as “he said,” and “she said,” are rarely used. The two main characters are an American man and a woman, possibly Irish, given her name—or possible nickname—Jig. The man is not given a name – this is important

For any not familiar with the overall plot, I’ll give a quick summary – pause here if you want to read it, it’s only four pages, you can find it online, I’d encourage you, if you haven’t, to give it a look.

“Hills Like White Elephants,” takes place at a train station in a barren stretch of land near the Ebro River in Northeastern Spain. Two characters, an American man and an Irish woman, are sitting, waiting for the train to arrive. In the distance across a dry brown plain are mountains; the woman remarks, to a terse response from her partner:

“ ‘They look like white elephants,’.”(Hemingway, pg. 1).

The conversation is mostly sparse, though it becomes more tense as the subject shifts to an upcoming procedure the woman will be undergoing, something the man describes as follows:

“ ‘They just let the air in and then it’s all perfectly natural.’” (pg. 2).

As the story progresses, the American man continues, with a kind of quiet insistence, almost anxiously, to press the woman about the procedure. This aggravates her so much that she cuts him off at one point, saying:

“ ‘Would you please please please please please please please please stop talking?’ ”(pg. 4).

The story final lines end with the woman saying she’s fine, that, “‘There’s nothing wrong with me. I feel fine.’” (pg. 4).

“To let the air in,” is an older expression referring to an abortion, which in Hemingway’s time, was an incredibly shameful, almost disgusting procedure. What’s notable is that most people don’t realize this, and walk away from the story confused; when explained, it becomes clear, not only in the dialogue, but in the construction as a whole, exactly what Hemingway’s talking about. The train station is in the middle of nowhere – it is a crossroads, symbolic perhaps that the man and woman are at a threshold they will not come back from. This is reinforced by the woman’s insistence that life will not go back to how it was before, how it cannot go back:

“ ‘No, it isn’t. And once they take it away, you never get it back.’”(pg. 3).

Also, the plain in the distance is barren, juxtaposed against mountains that are white, almost pale, like skin – a possible reference to the state of the womb before the procedure, and its state afterwards. There are more subtle notes – the woman decides to have a drink, despite being pregnant, which is a sign that she herself is resigned to the procedure, though it is completely against her will, something that troubles her greatly. If it did not, she wouldn’t insist the man stop talking, so much so that she eventually threatens to scream if he continues to try and comfort her more about the procedure.

This is a clear metaphor, illustrated beautifully through the simple punches of scenery and the all-at-once relaxed, wanting, and tense dialogue between two characters who are right next to each other the whole story but feel so distant. Hemingway did a fantastic job at constructing a simple scene with lean language and abundant depth.

My argument, my assertion, my personal reading, my central metaphor, is that this story and the theme of abortion isn’t just about an abortion – it’s about Hemingway’s style, and the relationship it creates between him and his stories.

The American man is Hemingway’s authorial stand-in; the woman is a symbol of his prose and his work before he puts it under the knife. She, his work – his stories – is pregnant with new life, with something more, something she wants to give him, something she believes will give them everything. Notice – it’s her observation that creates the most well-known scenic description in the story, the line that the title comes from:

“ ‘The girl was looking off at the line of hills. They were white in the sun and the country was brown and dry.

‘They look like white elephants,’ she said.

‘I’ve never seen one,’ the man drank his beer.’ ” (pg. 1).

Hemingway, as the writer, appears to disagree and disapprove of his own writing’s tendency towards the descriptive, the excessive, the more – life will be just fine with the two of them. It’s unnecessary to add a third, to add more, to the mix. Better to keep it sparse and simple rather than chance his life on excess.

In this central metaphor, the train station could be taken as a symbol of the transition between drafts. Much like the man and the woman in the story, a writer and their story, by the time the first draft is completed, have a kind of history together. This is something they’ve been working on, sometimes for months, or even years. The writing becomes a kind of personal relationship, and much like a personal relationship, there are so many private memories between an author and their work, it’s oddly and wonderfully intimate.

But you arrive at a crossroads when the first draft is done. And if you want to make something more of a book, you have to take that first step and start to cut away what doesn’t work. The time before this is one that’s often a bit melancholic, and empty, almost hollow, and lowly peaceful. You know that the thing you’ve made memories with and poured yourself into, it will have to change. You, and it, your story, will have to let go. It is a kind of cutting away, an excising – it is editing. It’s what Hemingway built his entire Iceberg Theory and his own style on.

Hemingway is especially known for his severe editing. So it would make sense that this scene, the one between the man and the woman at the train station, the writer and his story at the crossroads, is especially quiet and sad. And even a bit uncomfortable, and unfair, in regards to the woman/stories themselves, who clearly don’t want to go along with the procedure.

Of course, the woman/his stories do end up, ostensibly, going along with this – they have to, they are essentially his, but they are reluctant, almost distraught. The woman/story in the story attempts almost a sort of bargain with the man/Hemingway:

“ ‘I know. But if I do it, then it will be nice again if I say things are like white elephants, and you’ll like it?’” (pg. 3).

I find it key to mention that many of Hemingway’s critics argue his style and stories are far too sparse. There’s too much cut away, and there are chances for imagery and description that are totally dropped in favor of the style.

One last interesting piece I’ve found is this – the American man, reading as Hemingway’s surrogate, is given no name. By the very nature of his character, he is self-effacing. He does not want to be noticed – much like Hemingway’s writing style, he does not want to draw attention to himself. The woman, on the other hand, is lively, almost childish – and her name, presumably, is Jig. Jig was, during Hemingway’s time, a side-eye way to wink at possible Irish heritage. And remember what a jig is: a lively dance, something full to burst with passion, something happily excessive Something that, by its very nature, draws attention to itself. In this central metaphor reading, the woman’s character, the stand-in for Hemingway’s stories, is the absolute antithesis of Hemingway’s authorial stand-in, the American man. They couldn’t be more different, yet they have been drawn together, seemingly by fate, possibly by luck, and sadly by misfortune.

So, a quick recap – my central metaphor interpretation of “Hills Like White Elephants” is as follows:

The story’s abortion metaphor can be read as a deeper allegory for Hemingway’s own journey as a writer with each of his stories. He is a quiet, passionate, self-effacing man and artist, who finds himself bound and invariably attracted to a woman, a muse, whose entire being, lively, passionate, and excessive, is antithetical to his own. In his pursuit of this relationship, trying to do what is best for the both of them, he always arrives at a kind of crossroads after the completion of the first draft – the train station – before the abortion procedure – his editing process. While his stories may end up eventually going along with what he says, there is always a sense that perhaps, there is something lost in the whole affair that can never be regained, i.e. parts of prose that Hemingway perhaps nixed away, which could have been wonderful segments and pieces, that he cut in order to adhere to his Theory, his sense of what writing must be.

Now, Hemingway’s voice is what makes him Hemingway – but what if he could have been more? Or better? Those are often pointless questions in totality, but I do find they bear asking in the realm of theory. I personally find Hemingway’s work enjoyable, I’ve read a few of his books and short stories and found them compelling, almost cinematic.

But one of my nagging fears with him is that he was afraid to try for more. What if his reason, or one of his reasons, for omitting so much wasn’t out of a rigid adherence to the duty of style? What if, underscoring it, was a bit of fear? What if he was afraid to try for more detailed descriptions, interior monologues, and so on? What if he was afraid of more?

I don’t know, and this speculation is just that – speculation. But the central metaphor is founded in personal belief, and if part of my personal belief is a speculation that Hemingway was flawed in such a human way, I don’t find that it devalues his prose, but rather adds another dimension to it. True or not, it shapes my own personal understanding of him and his work. Again, this is not meant to replace the original meaning or reading of Hemingway or his stories. Rather, it is meant to shade a little bit, add a personal dimension to my own particular understanding of the writer, who he might have been, and what went into his stories.

And this helps to show the benefit and danger of the central metaphor – anything, if convincing enough, can be re-contextualized by anyone at any time. This can be fantastic, because it can help us view artists and their work in different, and unexpected, lights. Artists such as Tarantino, Scorsese, James Joyce, Jackson Pollock, Andy Warhol, Frank Zappa, and so on made their careers on works of art that re-contextualized or repurposed prior materials and made them their own.

But this technique can also, if used negligently or maliciously, corrupt a work and re-orient it towards ignorant, unjust, or even cruel, ends. Real-world examples abound—see any social movement that has co-opted the Communist Fist, the Nazi’s re-purposing of the swastika and the Roman Salute, even the massive, usually unpopular re-duxes of pop culture franchises that seem to rub most of their intended audiences the wrong way. These are all examples of movements that have attempted to co-opt and re-use various symbols and signals, and either ignore, or abuse, the original’s intent for their own means and ends.

All this is invariably moot in the larger scheme of things. Everything is reused, repurposed, recontextualized, recycled. It’s very easy to feel as though we have nothing left to contribute, because in a way, there really may not be anything that anyone’s contributed that hasn’t already been said. In a sense, though, I’d like to think that particular brand of nihilism takes a lot of the pressure off of anything we might think, say, or do. So, I hope, through a demonstration of my central metaphor theory, and an analysis of “Hills Like White Elephants,” you may have found some idea, some sentence, some minor expression or inflection, that caught you and made you, even if just for a moment, feel included in some larger discussion, and inspired to say something, anything, before it ends.

-Bibliography-

Hemingway, Ernest. “Hills Like White Elephants.” Men Without Women, Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1997.