The Old Man and the Sea

Since the publication of The Old Man and the Sea, there has been much debate surrounding the story’s symbols. Does the old man represent the author nearing the end of his career? Do the vicious sharks stand for cruel literary critics or the inevitably destructive forces of nature? While most readers agree that, as a parable, The Old Man and the Sea addresses universal life, the image of the lions playing on the African beach, which is presented three times in the novel, remains something of an enigma. Like poetry, the lions are supremely suggestive without being tethered to a single meaning. Indeed, the only certainty about the image is that it serves as a source of comfort and renewal for Santiago.

This passage, which describes Santiago’s dreams on the night before he sets out for his fishing expedition (the first day that the narrative covers), simultaneously confirms and moves beyond Hemingway’s immediately recognizable vision of the universe. Hemingway made his career telling stories about “great occurrences,” “great fish,” and “contests of strength.” The fact that Santiago no longer dreams of any of these makes him unique among Hemingway’s heroes. Of course, by dreaming of lions he is still in a recognizably “Hemingwayesque” world, but the lions here are at play and thus suggest a time of youth and ease. They are also linked explicitly to Manolin, a connection that is made apparent at the end of the novel as the boy watches over his aged friend as Santiago’s dream of the lions returns.

This passage, which describes Santiago’s hauling in of the tuna on the second day of the narrative, exemplifies the power and beauty of the simple, evocative style of prose that earned Hemingway his reputation as a revolutionary and influenced generations of writers to come. Hemingway’s strength and mastery lies in his ability to render concrete but still poetic images using familiar words and simple vocabulary. The scene above is instantly familiar, even to the many readers who have no experience hauling in fish. For instance, the “compact and bullet shaped” fish is remarkably visible as it shivers and shudders on the floor of the skiff. Hemingway loads the passage with carefully chosen sounds. For instance, the repetition of the “k” and “s” sounds in the last sentence suggests a calm, rhythmic motion, like the breaking of waves against the boat or the side-to-side twitching of the fish’s body.

The passage also demonstrates the psychological depths Hemingway could access despite his incredible economy of language. When the old man hits the fish on the head, Hemingway qualifies the action with only two words: “for kindness.” These two words, however, give the reader full insight into the old man’s character. Hemingway renders Santiago’s connection to, and respect and love for, the world in which he lives without reporting the old man’s innermost thoughts. Instead, using two well-chosen words, he hints at a depth of feeling that makes Santiago who he is. Hemingway described this technique as the “iceberg principle,” for he believed that the simplest writing, when done well, would hint at the greatest human truths, just as the tip of an iceberg hinted at the terrific frozen mass that rested underwater.

This passage is found at the end of the third day related by the novella. As Santiago struggles with the marlin, he reflects upon the nature of the universe and his place in it. He displays both pity for the fish and an unflagging determination to kill it, because the marlin’s death helps to reinvigorate the fisherman’s life. The predatory nature of this exchange is inevitable, for just as hawks will continue to hunt warblers, men will continue to kill marlin, and sharks will continue to rob them of their catches. The cruelty of this natural order is subverted, however, because of the kinship Santiago feels for his prey. His opponent is worthy—so worthy, in fact, that he later goes on to say that it doesn’t matter who kills whom. There is, in the old man’s estimation, some sense to this order. Man can achieve greatness only when placed in a well-matched contest against his earthly brothers. To find glory, Santiago does not need to extend himself beyond his animal nature by looking to the sun or the stars.

The killing of the marlin, which occurs on the fourth day of the narrative, marks the climax of the novella. The end of the marlin’s life is the most vital of moments, as the fish comes alive “with his death in him” and exhibits to Santiago, more strongly than ever before, “all his power and his beauty.” The fish seems to transcend his own death, because it invests him with a new life. This notion of transcendence is important, for it resounds within Santiago’s story. Like the fish, the old man suffers something of a death on his way back to the village. He is stripped of his quarry and, given his age, will likely never have the opportunity to land such a magnificent fish again. Nevertheless, he returns to the village with his spirit and his reputation revitalized.

As Santiago sails back to his village on the fourth day of the novella, towing behind him the carcass of the decimated marlin, he tries to make sense of the destruction he has witnessed. He feels deeply apologetic toward the fish, which he sees as too dignified for such a wasteful end. He attempts to explain to himself his reasons for killing the fish, and admits that his desire to hunt the fish stemmed from the very same quality that led to its eventual destruction: his pride. He then justifies his behavior by claiming that his slaying of the marlin was necessitated by his love and respect for it. Indeed, when Santiago kills the fish, the loss of life is somehow transcendently beautiful, as opposed to the bold, senseless scavenging on the part of the sharks.