Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 504 The Old Man and the Sea (Part 2)
On the morning of the third day, the fish got tired and started circling, getting smaller and smaller as it circled.

The old man slowly reeled in the fishing line, his hands trembling violently, but he kept reeling it in.

Finally, he saw the fish—

He only saw the fish for the first time after it had circled around three times.

He initially saw a dark shadow, and it took so long to pass under the ship that he could hardly believe it was that long.

“No,” he said. “It can’t be that big.”

But it really was that big. After circling around to the end, it emerged from the water. It was only thirty yards away when the old man saw its tail sticking out of the water.

The tail, taller than the blade of a large scythe, was a very pale purple, standing upright on the deep blue sea.

It was tilted backward, and when the fish swam downstream, the old man could see its massive body and the purple stripes all over its body.

Its dorsal fin drooped downwards, and its enormous pectoral fins were wide open.

Then, with all his might, the old man plunged the harpoon into the body of the enormous marlin—

Even as it faced death, it leaped high from the water, revealing its astonishing length and width, its power and beauty.

It seemed to be suspended in mid-air, right above the old man's head in the small boat. Then, with a thud, it fell into the water, splashing the old man and the entire boat.

The elderly man felt dizzy, nauseous, and his vision was blurry.

However, he loosened the rope on the harpoon, letting it slowly slip between his cut hands.

When his eyesight returned, he saw the fish lying on its back, its silver belly facing upwards.

The harpoon handle cuts diagonally from the fish's shoulder, and the seawater is stained red with the blood flowing from its heart.

At first, the pool of blood was dark and ominous, like a reef in blue seawater. Then it spread out like clouds. ...

Saint-Jacques then tied the fish to the side of the boat; it was so big that its head and tail dangled overboard. The boat was now drafting much deeper and was moving back very slowly.

Saint-Jacques was tired, but his mind was at peace. He drank the last of his water and began his return journey.

At this point, the reader's defenses loosen somewhat, and they begin to allow themselves to imagine:
Maybe this time it really will be different. Maybe the old man can take the fish back, shut everyone up, and regain respect...

But they had to restrain their fantasies, because they knew that Lionel wouldn't be so merciful.

—The shark is coming!
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The appearance of this shark was not accidental. It came up from the depths of the sea as the large patch of dark red blood sank and spread into the ocean.

It surged up so quickly, completely reckless, that it broke through the blue water and entered the sunlight.

The readers' hearts skipped a beat, but they weren't truly "disappointed."

On the contrary, the appearance of the shark made these Parisian readers, who had been "tortured" many times, feel "assured" and "at ease".

Sure enough, the world hasn't changed. It won't allow you to easily take away your spoils; it will reclaim any unexpected gains at the last minute.

Parisians are no strangers to this; they are psychologically prepared and might even laugh at Lionel for falling into their own trap.

So the story didn't collapse at this point, because at this point, they no longer placed all their hopes on "whether or not they brought back a whole fish".

He thrust the harpoon downwards into the shark's head, right between its eyes, where the brain was located; the old man thrust it straight at it.

He mustered all his strength and, with his blood-stained hands, thrust a fine harpoon at it.

He stabbed it, not with hope, but with determination and utter malice.

The first shark was killed, but sharks kept coming one after another.

The old man fought with a harpoon, a knife, an oar, and a rudder. One by one, the tools were lost, and the fish was torn away piece by piece.

As soon as he saw the shark, he leaned over the gunwale and jabbed it with his oar.

The old man turned the oar upside down and inserted the blade between the shark's jaws, trying to pry its mouth open.

The old man let it bite the fish, then plunged the knife attached to the paddle into its brain.

But the shark twisted backward sharply, rolled over, and the blade snapped with a snap.

He cursed at the sea, at the sharks, and at himself. But he didn't stop.

When the last shark pounced, the old man had only half a broken rudder in his hand.

He swung the rudder at the shark's head, hitting its jaws where it was biting down on the thick head, where the flesh wouldn't come off.

He swung it once, twice, and again. He heard the rudder snap, and he plunged the broken handle into the shark...

The shark released its grip, flipped over, and swam away. It was the last of the arriving sharks. They had nothing left to eat.

He looked at the marlin, which had been gnawed to pieces; now only its skeleton remained, with its head attached to a massive spine like a white sail.

It's all gone, everything is gone, but the battle is over too.

The old man raised the sail and drifted towards the harbor. He was exhausted and all he wanted to do was sleep.

When the old man ultimately dragged back only a massive fish skeleton, the Parisian readers felt no anger—

That kind of anger, like, "I've already taken my pants off and this is what you show me?"

Instead, an emotion permeated among them, an emotion that was difficult to describe concretely—

There was the weariness of having fought, the recognition of the old man Saint-Jacques, and even a kind of calm acceptance of fate.

The old man didn't gain any wealth—the fish was all eaten up;
Without gaining prestige, the people of the port would only see a skeleton;
He didn't even get a rest—he still had to go to sea tomorrow, the eighty-ninth day.

But all the readers in Paris agree on one thing—his voyage was not in vain; he accomplished something that actually happened!

This event doesn't need to be realized as a profit to prove its value. Its value lies in the fact that it was completed, in the fact that the three days and three nights of struggle actually happened, and in the fact that there was such a dialogue about survival and death between the old man and the big fish.

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What moved everyone most was that, during his struggle with the shark, when he knew he was going to lose the marlin, he finally uttered the words from the epigraph.

That was also the first time readers in Paris saw the "full picture" of this sentence.

"...Things are too good to be true, he thought."

I hope this is all a dream, that I didn't catch the fish at all, and that I'm just lying alone on the old newspapers on my bed.

“But man is not made for defeat,” he said. “A man can be destroyed but not defeated.”

"I hope this is all a dream, that I never caught the fish and am now lying alone on the old newspapers on my bed."

When those words were spoken, everyone held their breath.

Parisians are all too familiar with this sentiment in the elderly—when faced with immense loss, people often yearn for the fact that it never even began.

In the days following the annuity crash, many people thought late at night: If only I hadn't bought those bonds, if only I had kept the money hidden under my mattress.

"I wish this were all a dream" is not a weak thought, but rather the most honest reaction when faced with irreparable loss.

But then came the powerful statement, "Man is not made for defeat. A man can be destroyed but not defeated," which resonated deeply in everyone's heart.

The reader doesn't just understand the literal meaning, but also grasps the feeling:
You can take everything away from me—my money, my fish, even my life—but you can't make me "accept" it! As long as I'm still wielding the harpoon, even if my knife is dull and my hand is broken, I haven't been "defeated"!
Destruction is an external matter, defeat is an internal matter!
In the café, a few regulars huddled together reading newspapers; most of them were craftsmen—carpenters, locksmiths, and painters.

The pension crisis didn't have a significant impact on them, but business was generally bad, and they felt a strong sense of unease about the future.

Upon reading the line "I hope this is all a dream," a carpenter nodded: "Yes, that's exactly what I think."

Another locksmith sighed, "Who isn't?"

When they read the line, "A man can be destroyed but not defeated," they all fell silent.

The carpenter spoke first: "That's a strong statement."

The locksmith said, "It's tough enough, but can it really be done? The fish is almost completely eaten, and that doesn't count as a defeat?"

The painter, who had been silent until now, suddenly said, "That doesn't count."

He pointed to the newspaper: "Look, he's still fighting the shark. The fish is gone, but the fight isn't over yet."

As long as he still has an oar, a knife, and even his hands, he hasn't been 'defeated by the shark.'

He paused, then continued, "Like that job I did last year. The client reneges on payment, and I worked for free for three months. I didn't get paid, so it was basically 'ruined,' right?"
But I didn't back down; I sued him. In the end, I didn't get all the money back, but everyone knew he was the one who reneged on the debt.

Does this count as being 'defeated'? I don't think so.

The others thought for a moment and then nodded. Destruction is the result; defeat is the posture.

People can accept bad outcomes, but they cannot kneel down to accept them.

In the living rooms of intellectuals and pension holders, the reactions were more subtle.

A middle-aged official working at the Ministry of Finance is sitting in front of the fireplace reading a newspaper.

He suffered heavy losses, his hair turned almost white overnight, and he has been suffering from insomnia lately, staying awake until dawn, thinking about how to explain to his wife that he will have to cut back on spending in the future.

When he read the old man's monologue, his eyes suddenly welled up with tears, not from emotion, but from pain.

The saying "A man can be destroyed but not defeated" perfectly describes his state these days: he has been defeated!
It wasn't the financial crisis that defeated us, but our own despondency, complaints, and endless "what ifs"!
He's still getting paid, still has a job, and still has a family. But in his heart, he's already given up, feeling like his life is over.

But the old man at sea, who had nothing and was unarmed, said, "I cannot be defeated," when faced with a group of sharks.

The official put down his newspaper and looked at the fire in the fireplace, the firelight illuminating his tired face.

After a long moment, he took a deep breath.

The holiday is over, and it's back to work; the numbers in his bank account won't improve, but his attitude towards those numbers can.

This isn't about getting back on your feet; it's just about deciding to stop lying down.

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At the end of the novel, the old man returned to the port, where only the skeleton of the giant marlin remained, and all the fishermen marveled at the sight of it.

They marveled at the marlin's enormous size, lamented the old man's bad luck, and lamented the shark's wickedness...

But all of this is no longer relevant to Saint-Jacques.

A group of tourists arrived at the hotel. One of the women looked towards the sea and saw a thick, long white spine with a huge tail at one end.

As the east wind continuously whips up huge waves outside the harbor, this tail rises and falls with the tide, swaying back and forth.

"What is that?" she asked a waiter, pointing to the long spine of the large fish, which was now just trash, waiting for the tide to come and take it away.

“Shark…” the waiter said. He was about to explain what had happened.

"I didn't know sharks had such beautiful tails, with such a lovely shape."

“I don’t know either,” her male companion said.

At the other end of the road, in the old man's shack, he fell asleep again.

He remained lying face down, the child sitting beside him, watching over him. The old man was dreaming of lions.

----over----】

The novel ended, and the readers in Paris closed their newspapers, no one able to say anything immediately.

In the coffee shop, the tobacco shop, at home, in the salon, in the office, all was quiet...

It wasn't the kind of quiet that evoked emotion, nor the kind that evoked despair; this quiet was calm, even solid.

The old man failed; he couldn't bring back any fish to sell. He remained poor, still ridiculed, and might still not catch any fish tomorrow.

But the readers did not feel deceived by Lionel Sorel.

Because the story isn't about "how to succeed," but rather "how to fail without being defined by failure."

Saint-Jacques lost the fish, but he didn't lose the three-day, three-night battle.

Parisian readers did not feel relieved, nor did they regain faith in slogans such as "tomorrow will be better" or "France will be revived."

But they felt something long lost return to their hearts—something that wasn't hope, faith, or even courage.

It's more like an realization: after disillusionment, one can still stand; after failure, one doesn't have to deny that one once lived earnestly.

This is Lionel Sorel's "explanation" to Parisians and the French people.

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In the tobacco shop, a middle school teacher folded a newspaper and put it in his pocket.

The tobacco shop owner asked, "How is it?"

The teacher thought for a moment before saying, "It's different from 'The Sun Also Rises'."

"Why is it different?"

“Jacques de Barnes accepted that ‘nothing matters.’ Saint-Jacques did not.”

The shopkeeper's hands, which had been wiping the counter forever, stopped: "But he still got nothing!"

The teacher shook his head: "He got it. He got that fight, it's his. Nobody can take it away, not even the biggest shark."

The boss seemed to understand but not quite.

The teacher paid for the cigarettes, stepped out of the store, and found the sun shining brightly on the street.

He looked up at the sky, and the dark clouds had dispersed sometime earlier.

Yes, the dark clouds have dispersed.

The gloomy clouds that had been weighing on Paris for days had vanished without a trace.

For the first time in more than half a month, the sun shone down generously, shining on the asphalt road, on the lead roof, and on the faces of pedestrians.

Warm and bright.

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(End of this chapter)