Explore the symbolism behind Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea and discover the profound messages hidden beneath the simple tale.
They say you shouldn’t read too much into The Old Man and the Sea.
Who says? He says. Ernest Hemingway, who wrote the classic novella published in 1952.
His style is famously terse, so his response is typical.
‘There isn’t any symbolism,’ he said. ‘The sea is the sea, the old man is an old man, the sharks are all sharks, no better nor worse. All the symbolism that people say is s***.’
Thanks Ernest, but no-one believes you. And you can’t control what we do with your evocative fable anyway. We’re gonna bring our baggage whether you like it or not.
And, boy, do we have baggage.
What is the Old Man and the Sea about?
[Spoiler alert.]
To sum up:
The Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway tells the story of Santiago, an ageing Cuban fisherman who has gone 84 days without catching a fish. Despite his bad luck, he remains determined and ventures far out into the Gulf Stream in search of a great catch.
On the 85th day, Santiago hooks a massive marlin and struggles with the fish for three days. During this intense battle, he admires the marlin’s strength and beauty, feeling a sense of kinship with it. While he himself feels his age and suffers greatly.
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Santiago finally catches the marlin and ties it to his boat, but his triumph is short-lived. As he sails back home, sharks are drawn to the marlin’s blood, and despite Santiago’s efforts to fend them off, they devour the fish, leaving only its skeleton.
Exhausted and defeated, Santiago returns to shore, where other fishermen marvel at the size of the fish’s remains.
What’s going on here really?
See, a simple tale. Man goes to catch a fish and, er, fails. Any other author, that’s a bad anecdote in the pub.
So how come it has so much resonance? How come people who have never caught a house fly let alone a fish return time and again to a forensic examination of weights and lures.
Because, obviously, it’s not about a fish.
The modern equivalent of Hemingway’s book is The Shawshank Redemption. The film was a dud on release but moved to the top of the charts as the best film of all time.
Ernest Hemingway, 1954, author of Old Man and the Sea
It’s not the best film of all time, obviously, although it’s very good. What it is, though, is resonant. It talks to you.
We’re all Andy Dufresne, aren’t we, in our own ways? Not with the tunnelling and the abuse and the gnomic comments to pal Red on the gravelly prison yard.
But we all struggle, go through it all, take steps that seem futile and small and not much noticed but always in the hope of eventual rebirth.
You see those videos of stray dogs found by the side of the road, furless and whimpering? We watch them not because we want to see a dog suffer, but because when he’s better, when he’s fed and loved, he looks so happy, and forgiving and blissfully forgetful of what went before.
Second chances. They’re just first chances repackaged.
We are Andy Dufresne. We are Santiago. We are Fido. Putting in the hard yards in the hope of our own little miracle.
Man and a fish? No, it’s about you and your struggles
Yes, it’s true, Santiago has a bad time of it. No Hollywood ending for our ageing campaigner, assailed, lucklessly, by indefatigable sharks, old age and cramp.
But what Ernest Hemingway does, miraculously and pedantically, is instil in Santiago a nobility. His struggle is epic. It chimes with the struggles of the world. His efforts are heroic, but not superhuman. He inches his way to success, crawls there, marking his tiny triumphs not with trophies but in new rounds of pain.
Santiago sees in the marlin himself. And we see in Santiago ourselves. Or, at least, how we’d like to be in the depths of our struggle, weak of body but firm of purpose, making glacial progress.
Remember the family motto
Ernest Shackleton, polar explorer, leader of men, architect of one of the greatest survival stories of the modern ages, carried with him his family motto – fortitudine vincimus.
By endurance we conquer.
By persevering there might be tangible success – the golden beach of Andy Dufresne’s dream or Santiago’s piscine lottery win – but there is triumph to be found simply in the act of enduring, regardless of outcome.
Santiago goes out in hope, despite not having caught a fish in 84 days.
He shrugs off pain, despair and self-pity. He creates fictions to stave off isolation and despair.
He is resilient. Brave. He may die, but he is ready.
He has pride in his endeavour regardless of outcome. He has a nobility in action, honour in the face of defeat.
All these amount to something. All these have a legacy. All these shape a person and present them with an honourable narrative.
Even the great Nobel Laureate shouldn’t deny us those enlivening messages, even if we do find him in a particularly foul mood today.