Should the ghost of Ernest Hemingway return to haunt bookstores (on line or, more rarely, in “actuality”), he would not find reincarnations of his first novel, The Sun Also Rises, lacking. If he visits in 1984, he can settle into Brights Lights, Big City by Jay McInerney and see Brett Ashley, Jake Barnes, et. al. under other names mucking about New York instead of Paris and Pamplona. They are still rootless writers, and fashion conscious people who work in offices. Such types endure! If he comes back in 1996 or later, he can open Michael Hornburg’s Bongwater for the same result. This time the scene is New York and Portland (Oregon), but the same dissipations obtain. Sexual liaisons, betrayals, and chemical alterations of mind chug along in the same relatively uncentered, plotless schema. Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.
The dust jackets or covers of these books trace the arc from shock to indifference. The Sun Also Rises shows a listless figure draped in a toga, at once classical, art nouveau, and decadent. Bright Lights, Big City, as literal as the first paperback for The Catcher in the Rye, is more literal and shows a man looking at a restaurant or music hall called the Odéon. Shades of Paris! No classicism there. Bongwater gives up. It lets the depravity and repellence of the title suffice; the word is superimposed on a 1950’s style design of pink and lime stars and asterisks set against a yellow background suitable for a formica table top.
Hornburg’s characters go under the names Courtney, Jennifer, Mary, David, Tony and Robert. They smoke cigarettes as often as Lady Brett Ashley, Mike, Bill, and Georgette drink. They do coke as often as the folks in Bright Lights, Big City. Tony and Robert are gay, but, hey, it’s 1995, no biggie. The paean to nature in Spain at the center of The Sun Also Rises, contrasting to depraved urban life, is transferred to the woods outside Portland, but it’s grubby: an abandoned shack rather than the pristine woods and bars and hotels at a fiesta. There is no Montoya or Jake against which to measure a reader’s repellence. These characters are detached from the dissipations that might seem to have given them pleasure. However, as Ecclesiastes, The Divine Comedy, or “Babylon Revisited” points out, that is how dissipation ends.
Whatever exhaustion The Sun Also Rises may be heading for, Hemingway’s book is distinguished by its author’s (then) distinctive terse style. (It has been so influential that now one scarcely sees it.) Its cast of characters is intelligently and crisply differentiated. Bright Lights, Big City, whose dramatis personæ are more fungible, has this much of the literarily experimental in it: it is written in the second person (“you”). Quite a trick—one that for 50 pages, or until one no longer notices it, is striking. Bongwater, at 189 pages is the shortest of these three books; it has no particular stylistic eminence. It blithely shifts point of view as it maneuvers its figures through their paces and then stops, like the others, short of conclusive resolution, as though exhaustion had taken over its prose.