Ernest Hemingway, born in Oak Park, Illinois, in 1899, was educated there in the public schools. He became a reporter on the Kansas City Star and in World War I served as an ambulance driver and infantryman (步兵) with the Italian army. After the war, he settled in Paris as a correspondent for the Toronto Star and it was there, he began his serious writing career.
The Old Man and the Sea
He was an old man who fished alone in a skiff (小船) in the Gulf Stream (海灣流) and he had gone eighty-four days now without taking a fish. In the first forty days, a boy had been with him. But after forty days without a fish, the boy’s parents had told him that the old man was unlucky, and the boy had gone at their orders in another boat which caught three good fish in the first week. It made the boy sad to see the old man come in each day with his skiff empty, and he always went down to help him carry things. Everything about him was old except his eyes, and they were the same color as the sea, and were cheerful and undefeated. “Santiago,” the boy said, “I could go with you again. We’ve made some money.” The old man had taught the boy to fish and the boy loved him.
“Tomorrow is going to be a good day with this current,” Santiago said. “Where are you going?” the boy asked. “Far out to come in when the wind shifts. I want to be out before it is light.” Santiago said, “When I was at your age, I was standing before the mast (桅杆) on a square rigged (帆裝) ship that ran to Africa, and I have seen lions on the beaches in the evening.” He was asleep in a short time, and he dreamed of Africa when he was a boy, and the long golden beaches and the white beaches. He lived along that coast now every night, and in his dreams he heard the surf roar and saw the native boats come riding through it. He no longer dreamed of storms, nor of women, nor of great fish, nor fights, nor contests of strength, nor of his wife. He only dreamed of places now and of the lions on the beach.
On the sea, Santiago was sorry for the birds, especially the small ones that were always flying and looking and almost never finding fish. He always thought of the sea as if she were a woman. The clouds over the land now rose like mountains, and the coast was only a long green line with the gray blue hills behind it. The water was a dark blue now, so dark that it was almost purple.
Santiago did not remember when he had first started to talk aloud when he was by himself. “I wish I had the boy,” the old man said aloud.
Santiago said, “What a great fish he is, and what will he bring in the market if the flesh is good.” Perhaps I should not have been a fisherman. But that was the thing that I was born for. “Fish,” he said softly, aloud, “I’ll stay with you until I am dead.” “Fish,” he said, “I love you and respect you very much. But I will kill you dead before this day ends.” There is no sense in being anything but practical. I wish I had some salt. The fish is calm and steady. I will eat and then I will be ready to fight. The old man had seen many great fish. He had caught the fish weighted more than a thousand pounds, but never alone. Now alone, it was the biggest fish that he had ever seen, and bigger than he had ever heard of. “I’ll kill him though,” Santiago said, “In all his greatness and his glory. Although it is unjust, I will show him what a man can do, and what a man endures. I told the boy I was a strange old man. Now is the time when I must prove it.”
The fish was coming in on his circle now, calm and beautiful looking, and only his great tail moving. The old man pulled on him all that he could to bring him closer. The old man saw the fish on his back with his silver belly up. The shaft (矛柄) of the harpoon (魚叉) was projecting at an angle from the fish’s shoulder and the sea was discoloring (變色) with the red of the blood from his heart. The fish was silvery and still and floated with the waves. He cut a piece of line and tied the fish’s lower jaw against his bill (喙), so his mouth would not open, and they would sail as cleanly as possible.
The old man looked at the fish constantly to make sure it was true. It was an hour before the first shark hit him. The old man’s head was clear and good now, and he was full of resolution, but he had little hope. It was too good to last. He took one look at the great fish as he watched the sharks close in. They were hateful sharks, bad smelling as killers. When they were hungry, they would bite at an oar (槳) or the rudder (舵) of a boat. Santiago said, “I shouldn’t have gone out so far, fish. Neither for you nor for me. I’m sorry, fish.” The sharks were up to the bow now, and driving in one after the other, and together, tearing off the pieces of meat that showed glowing below the sea as they turned to come once more. That was the last shark of the pack that came. There was nothing more for them to eat.
Santiago sailed lightly now, and he had no thoughts nor any feelings of any kind. He was past everything now, and he sailed the skiff to make his home port as well and as intelligently as he could. The old man paid no attention to anything except steering. He only noticed how lightly, and how well the skiff sailed now, there was no great weight beside her.
“How is he?” “Sleeping,” the boy called. He did not care that they saw him crying. “He was eighteen feet from nose to tail,” the fisherman who was measuring him called. “I believe it,” the boy said, “Now we fish together again.” “No. I am not lucky. I am not lucky anymore.” “The hell with luck,” the boy said. “I’ll bring the luck with me. You must get well fast for there is much that I can learn, and you can teach me everything. How much did you suffer?” “Plenty,” the old man said. As the boy went out the door, he was crying again.
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