作者：(美)海明威（Hemingway,E.）
出版社：清华大学出版社
格式: AZW3, DOCX, EPUB, MOBI, PDF, TXT
老人与海（中文导读英文版）试读：
前言
欧内斯特·海明威（Ernest Hemingway，l899—1961），蜚声世界文坛的美国现代著名小说家，1954年度诺贝尔文学奖获得者、“新闻体”小说的创始人。
海明威1899年7月21日出生在美国伊利诺伊州的一个医生家庭。他的母亲喜爱文学，父亲酷爱打猎、钓鱼等户外活动，这样的家庭环境使他从小就喜欢钓鱼、打猎、音乐和绘画，这对海明威日后的文学创作产生了巨大的影响。在高中时期，他就开始在校报上发表短篇小说，表现出了很高的创作天赋。中学毕业后，海明威在《星报》当了6个月的实习记者，在此受到了良好的训练。第一次世界大战爆发后，海明威怀着感受战争的热切愿望，加入美国红十字会战场服务队，投身意大利战场。大战结束后，海明威被意大利政府授予十字军功奖章、银质奖章和勇敢奖章，获得中尉军衔，但伴随这些荣誉的是他身上数不清的伤痕和赶不走的恶魔般的战争记忆。第一次世界大战后，他长期担任驻欧记者，并曾以记者身份参加第二次世界大战和西班牙内战。他对创作怀着浓厚的兴趣，一面当记者，一面写小说。1926年出版了第一部长篇小说《太阳照常升起》，受到了文学界的广泛关注。1929年，他发表了他的代表作之——《永别了，武器》。这是一部出色的反战小说，标志着海明威在艺术上的成熟，并且奠定了他在小说界的地位。1940年，海明威发表了以西班牙内战为背景的反法西斯主义的长篇小说《丧钟为谁而鸣》。1952年，他出版了《老人与海》，该小说获得了当年普利策奖，由于该小说体现了人在“充满暴力与死亡的现实世界中”表现出来的勇气而获得1954年诺贝尔文学奖，获奖原因是：“因为他精通于叙事艺术，突出地表现在他的近著《老人与海》中，同时也由于他在当代风格中所发挥的影响。”对于这一赞誉，海明威是当之无愧的。获奖后的海明威患有多种疾病，给他的身心造成了极大的痛苦，之后他没能再创作出很有影响的作品，这使他精神抑郁，并产生了消极悲观的情绪。1961年7月2日，蜚声世界文坛的海明威用猎枪结束了自己的生命。
20世纪20年代是海明威文学创作的早期，他出版了《在我们的时代里》、《春潮》、《没有女人的男人》、《太阳照常升起》和《永别了，武器》等作品。《太阳照常升起》写的是像海明威一样流落在法国的一群美国年轻人，在第一次世界大战后，迷失了前进的方向，战争给他们造成了生理上和心理上的巨大伤害，他们非常空虚、苦恼和忧郁。他们想有所作为，但战争使他们精神迷惘，尔虞我诈的社会又使他们非常反感，他们只能在沉沦中度日，美国作家斯坦因由此称他们为“迷惘的一代”。这部小说是海明威自己生活道路和世界观的真实写照。海明威和他所代表的一个文学流派因而也被人称为“迷惘的一代”。除《太阳照常升起》之外，《永别了，武器》被誉为“迷惘的一代”文学中的经典。20世纪30～40年代，他在《第五纵队》和长篇小说《丧钟为谁而鸣》中；塑造了摆脱迷惘、悲观，为人民利益英勇战斗和无畏牺牲的反法西斯战士形象；根据在非洲的见闻和印象，他创作了《非洲的青山》、《乞力马扎罗山的雪》，还发表了《法兰西斯·玛贝康短暂的幸福》。20世纪50年代，塑造了以圣地亚哥为代表的“可以把他消灭，但就是打不败他”的硬汉形象，其代表作就是影响世界的文学经典《老人与海》。
海明威一生的创作在现代文学史上留下了光辉的一页，他是美利坚民族的精神丰碑。海明威一生勤奋创作。早上起身的第一件事，就是进行写作。他写作时，还有一个常人没有的习惯，就是站着写。他说：“我站着写，而且是一只脚站着。我采取这种姿势，使我处于一种紧张状态，迫使我尽可能简短地表达我的思想。”海明威是一位具有独创性的小说家。他的最大贡献在于创造了一种洗练含蓄的新散文风格；在艺术上，他那简约有力的文体和多种现代派手法的出色运用，在美国文学中曾引起过一场“文学革命”，之后有许多欧美作家在小说创作中都受到了他的影响。
海明威也是一位颇受中国读者喜爱的作家，他的主要作品都有中译本出版，他的作品是最受广大读者欢迎的外国文学之一。基于这个原因，我们决定编译“海明威文学经典系列”丛书，该系列收入了海明威的《永别了，武器》、《老人与海》、《太阳照常升起》、《丧钟为谁而鸣》和《流动的盛宴》五部经典之作，并采用中文导读英文版的形式出版。在中文导读中，我们尽力使其贴近原作的精髓，也尽可能保留原作的故事主线。我们希望能够编出为当代中国读者所喜爱的经典读本。读者在阅读英文故事之前，可以先阅读中文导读内容，这样有利于了解故事背景，从而加快阅读速度。我们相信，该经典著作的引进对加强当代中国读者，特别是青少年读者的科学素养和人文修养是非常有帮助的。
本书主要内容由王勋、纪飞编译。参加本书故事素材搜集整理及编译工作的还有郑佳、刘乃亚、赵雪、熊金玉、李丽秀、熊红华、王婷婷、孟宪行、胡国平、李晓红、贡东兴、陈楠、邵舒丽、冯洁、王业伟、徐鑫、王晓旭、周丽萍、熊建国、徐平国、肖洁、王小红等。限于科学、人文素养和英语水平，书中难免会有不当之处，衷心希望读者朋友批评指正。第一章/Chapter 1导读1
圣地亚哥是一个独自在墨西哥湾流以捕鱼为生的老人。生活和岁月给老人以折磨，令他又瘦又憔悴，可是他的眼睛像海一样蓝，眼神愉快且毫不沮丧。他已经有八十四天没有打到鱼了，前四十天还有一个叫马洛林的男孩跟着他。男孩后来被父母安排去了另一条船上，他们说几十天没打到鱼的老人很背运。但是男孩很爱老人，每天晚上老人在海上空船而归的时候，他就过来帮助老人收拾渔具。2
男孩又过来帮忙了，请求第二天跟老人一起出海，老人知道他不是因为对自己没有信心才离开自己，叫小男孩继续听爸妈的话，跟着别人一起打渔。他们一起在海边餐馆的露台上坐下来喝酒，在阵阵鱼腥味中谈论着往事，男孩说他记得五岁起老人带他捕鱼的每次细节，老人说自己第二天要出远门。老人和小男孩都相信老人还有许多捕鱼技巧，能够捕到大鱼。3
两人一起拿着渔具去了老人的棚屋，棚屋空荡荡的，壁上挂着老人妻子的遗像。老人相信八十五是个幸运数字，想要买张尾号是八十五的彩票，但是没有钱。他们又谈论了会儿棒球比赛，老人告诉男孩要多想想伟大的迪马吉奥，要对扬基队有信心。男孩出去准备老人第二天要用的沙丁鱼鱼饵，回来时老人已经在椅子上睡着了。男孩为老人盖上了旧毯子，等候老人醒来，然后奉上了从露台那边取来的晚饭。他们吃饭时又谈起了棒球赛，老人说他想要带迪马吉奥去捕鱼，又说他小时候曾在非洲海岸上看见过狮子。男孩坚信老人是所有渔夫中最好的一个，可以对付任何大鱼。两个人分别了，老人在简陋的床板上睡着了，梦见了非洲的高山和海岸以及沙滩上嬉戏的狮子。圣地亚哥和马洛林 e was an old man who fished alone in a skiff in the Gulf Stream and he had gone eighty-four days now without taking a fish. In the Hfirst 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 now definitely and finally salao，which is the worst form of unlucky，and the boy had gone at their orders in another boat which caught three good fish 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 either the coiled lines or the gaff and harpoon and the sail that was furled around the mast.The sail was patched with flour sacks and，furled，it looked like the flag of permanent defeat.
The old man was thin and gaunt with deep wrinkles in the back of his neck. The brown blotches of the benevolent skin cancer the sun brings from its reflection on the tropic sea were on his cheeks.The blotches ran well down the sides of his face and his hands had the deep-creased scars from handling heavy fish on the cords.But none of these scars were fresh.They were as old as erosions in a fishless desert.
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 to him as they climbed the bank from where the skiff was hauled up.“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.
“NO，”the old man said.“You're with a lucky boat. Stay with them.”
“But remember how you went eighty-seven days without fish and then we caught big ones every day for three weeks.”
“I remember，”the old man said，“I know you did not leave me becauseyou doubted.
“It was papa made me leave. I am a boy and I must obey him.”
“I know，”the old man said.“It is quite normal.”
“He hasn't much faith.”
“No，”the old man said.“But we have. Haven't we？”
“Yes，”the boy said.“Can I offer you a beer on the Terrace and then we'll take the stuff home.”
“Why not？”the old man said.“Between fishermen.”
They sat on the Terrace and many of the fishermen made fun of the old man and he was not angry. Others，of the older fishermen，looked at him and were sad.But they did not show it and they spoke politely about the current and the depths they had drifted their lines at and the steady good weather and of what they had seen.The successful fishermen of that day were already in and had butchered their marlin out and carried them laid full across two planks，with two men staggering at the end of each plank，to the fish house where they waited for the ice truck to carry them to the market in Havana.Those who had caught sharks had taken them to the shark factory on the other side of the cove where they were hoisted on a block and tackle，their livers removed，their fins cut off and their hides skinned out and their flesh cut into strips for salting.
When the wind was in the east a smell came across the harbor from the shark factory；but today there was only the faint edge of the odor because the wind had backed into the north and then dropped off and it was pleasant and sunny on the Terrace.
“Santiago，”the boy said.
“Yes，”the old man said. He was holding his glass and thinking of many years ago.
“Can I go out to get sardines for you for tomorrow？”
“No. Go and play baseball.I can still row and Rogelio will throw the net.”
“I would like to go. If I cannot fish with you，I would like to serve in some way.”
“You bought me a beer，”the old man said.“You are already a man.”
“How old was I when you first took me in a boat？”
“Five and you nearly were killed when I brought the fish in too green and he nearly tore the boat to pieces. Can you remember？”老人在简陋的床板上睡着了
“I can remember the tail slapping and banging and the thwart breaking and the noise of the clubbing. I can remember you throwing me into the bow where the wet coiled lines were and feeling the whole boat shiver and the noise of you clubbing him like chopping a tree down and the sweet blood smell all over me.”
“Can you really remember that or did I just tell it to you？”
“I remember everything from when we first went together.”
The old man looked at him with his sunburned，confident loving eyes.
“If you were my boy I'd take you out and gamble，”he said.“But you are your father's and your mother's and you are in a lucky boat.”
“May I get the sardines？I know where I can get four baits too.”
“I have mine left from today. I put them in salt in the box.”
“Let me get four fresh ones.”
“One，”the old man said. His hope and his confidence had never gone.But now they were freshening as when the breeze rises.
“Two，”the boy said.
“Two，”the old man agreed.“You didn't steal them？”
“I would，the boy said. But I bought these.”
“Thank you，”the old man said. He was too simple to wonder when he had attained humility.But he knew he had attained it and he knew it was not disgraceful and it carried no loss of true pride.
“Tomorrow is going to be a good day with this current，”he 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.”
“I'll try to get him to work far out，”the boy said.“Then if you hook something truly big we can come to your aid.”
“He does not like to work too far out.”
“No，”the boy said.“But I will see something that he cannot see such as a bird working and get him to come out after dolphin.”
“Are his eyes that bad？”
“He is almost blind.”
“It is strange，”the old man said.“He never went turtleing. That is what kills the eyes.”
“But you went turtleing for years off the Mosquito Coast and your eyes are good.”
“I am a strange old man.”
“But are you strong enough now for a truly big fish？”
“I think so. And there are many tricks.”
“Let us take the stuff home，”the boy said.“So I can get the cast net and go after the sardines.”
They picked up the gear from the boat. The old man carried the mast on his shoulder and the boy carried the wooden box with the coiled，hard-braided brown lines，the gaff and the harpoon with its shaft.The box with the baits was under the stem of the skiff along with the club that was used to subdue the big fish when they were brought alongside.No one would steal from the old man but it was better to take the sail and the heavy lines home as the dew was bad for them and，though he was quite sure no local people would steal from him，the old man thought that a gaff and a harpoon were needless temp-tations to leave in a boat.
They walked up the road together to the old man's shack and went in through its open door. The old man leaned the mast with its wrapped sail against the wall and the boy put the box and the other gear beside it.The mast was nearly as long as the one room of the shack.The shack was made of the tough bud shields of the royal palm which are called guano and in it there was a bed，a table，one chair，and a place on the dirt floor to cook with charcoal.On the brown walls of the flattened，overlapping leaves of the sturdy fibered guano there was a picture in color of the Sacred Heart of Jesus and another of the Virgin of Cobre.These were relics of his wife.Once there had been a tinted photograph of his wife on the wall but he had taken it down because it made him too lonely to see it and it was on the shelf in the corner under his clean shirt.“What do you have to eat？”the boy asked.
“A pot of yellow rice with fish. Do you want some？”
“No，I will eat at home. Do you want me to make the fire？”
“No. I will make it later on.Or I may eat the rice cold.”
“May I take the cast net？”
“Of course.”
There was no cast net and the boy remembered when they had sold it. But they went through this fiction every day.There was no pot of yellow rice and fish and the boy knew this too.
“Eighty-five is a lucky number，”the old man said.“How would you like to see me bring one in that dressed out over a thousand pounds？”
“I'll get the cast net and go for sardines. Will you sit in the sun in the doorway？”
“Yes. I have yesterday's paper and I will read the baseball.”
The boy did not know whether yesterday's paper was a fiction too. But the old man brought it out from under the bed.
“Perico gave it to me at the bodega，”he explained.
“I'll be back when I have the sardines. I'll keep yours and mine together on ice and we can share them in the morning.When I come back you can tell me about the baseball.”
“The Yankees cannot lose.”
“But I fear the Indians of Cleveland.”
“Have faith in the Yankees my son. Think of the great DiMaggio.”
“I fear both the Tigers of Detroit and the Indians of Cleveland.”
“Be careful or you will fear even the Reds of Cincinnati and the White Sox of Chicago.”
“You study it and tell me when I come back.”
“Do you think we should buy a terminal of the lottery with an eighty-five？Tomorrow is the eighty-fifth day.”
“We can do that，”the boy said.“But what about the eighty-seven of your great record？”
“It could not happen twice. Do you think you can find an eighty-five？”
“I can order one.”
“One sheet. That's two dollars and a half.Who can we borrow that from？”
“That's easy. I can always borrow two dollars and a half.”
“I think perhaps I can too. But I try not to borrow.First you borrow.Then you beg.”
“Keep warm old man，”the boy said.“Remember we are in September.”
“The month when the great fish come，”the old man said.“Anyone can be a fisherman in May.”
“I go now for the sardines，”the boy said.
When the boy came back the old man was asleep in the chair and the sun was down. The boy took the old army blanket off the bed and spread it over the back of the chair and over the old man's shoulders.They were strange shoulders，still powerful although very old，and the neck was still strong too and the creases did not show so much when the old man was asleep and his head fallen forward.His shirt had been patched so many times that it was like the sail and the patches were faded to many different shades by the sun.The old man's head was very old though and with his eyes closed there was no life in his face.The newspaper lay across his knees and the weight of his arm held it there in the evening breeze.He was bare footed.
The boy left him there and when he came back the old man was still asleep.
“Wake up old man，”the boy said and put his hand on one of the old man's knees.
The old man opened his eyes and for a moment he was coming back from a long way away. Then he smiled.
“What have you got？”he asked.
“Supper，”said the boy.“We're going to have supper.”
“I'm not very hungry.”
“Come on and eat. You can't fish and not eat.”
“I have，”the old man said getting up and taking the newspaper and folding it. Then he started to fold the blanket.
“Keep the blanket around you，”the boy said.“You'll not fish without eating while I'm alive.”
“Then live a long time and take care of yourself，”the old man said.“What are we eating？”
“Black beans and rice，fried bananas，and some stew.”
The boy had brought them in a two-decker metal container from the Terrace. The two sets of knives and forks and spoons were in his pocket with apaper napkin wrapped around each set.
“Who gave this to you？”
“Martin. The owner.”
“I must thank him.”
“I thanked him already，”the boy said.“You don't need to thank him.”
“I'll give him the belly meat of a big fish，”the old man said.“Has he done this for us more than once？”
“I think so.”
“I must give him something more than the belly meat then. He is very thoughtful for us.”
“He sent two beers.”
“I like the beer in cans best.”
“I know. But this is in bottles，Hatuey beer，and I take back the bottles.”
“That's very kind of you，”the old man said.“Should we eat？”
“I've been asking you to，”the boy told him gently.“I have not wished to open the container until you were ready.”
“I'm ready now，”the old man said.“I only needed time to wash.”
Where did you wash？the boy thought. The village water supply was two streets down the road.I must have water here for him，the boy thought，and soap and a good towel.Why am I so thoughtless？I must get him another shirt and a jacket for the winter and some sort of shoes and another blanket.
“Your stew is excellent，”the old man said.
“Tell me about the baseball，”the boy asked him.
“In the American League it is the Yankees as I said，”the old man said happily.
“They lost today，”the boy told him.
“That means nothing. The great DiMaggio is himself again.”
“They have other men on the team.”
“Naturally. But he makes the difference.In the other league，between Brooklyn and Philadelphia I must take Brooklyn.But then I think of Dick Sisler and those great drives in the old park.”
“There was nothing ever like them. He hits the longest ball I have ever seen.”
“Do you remember when he used to come to the Terrace？I wanted to take him fishing but I was too timid to ask him. Then I asked you to ask him and you were too timid.”
“I know. It was a great mistake.He might have gone with us.Then we would have that for all of our lives.”
“I would like to take the great DiMaggio fishing，”the old man said.“They say his father was a fisherman. Maybe he was as poor as we are and would understand.”
“The great Sisler's father was never poor and he，the father，was playing in the big leagues when he was my age.
“When I was your age I was before the mast on a square rigged ship that ran to Africa and I have seen lions on the beaches in the evening.”
“I know. You told me.”
“Should we talk about Africa or about baseball？”
“Baseball I think，”the boy said.“Tell me about the great John J. McGraw.”He said Jota for J.
“He used to come to the Terrace sometimes too in the older days. But he was rough and harsh-spoken and difficult when he was drinking.His mind was on horses as well as baseball.At least he carried lists of horses at all times in his pocket and frequently spoke the names of horses on the telephone.”
“He was a great manager，”the boy said.“My father thinks he was the greatest.”
“Because he came here the most times，”the old man said.“If Durocher had continued to come here each year your father would think him the greatest manager.”
“Who is the greatest manager，really，Luque or Mike Gonzalez？”
“I think they are equal.”
“And the best fisherman is you.”
“No. I know others better.”
“Qué va，”the boy said.“There are many good fishermen and some great ones.But there is only you.”
“Thank you. You make me happy.I hope no fish will come along so great that he will prove us wrong.”
“There is no such fish if you are still strong as you say.”
“I may not be as strong as I think，”the old man said.“But I know many tricks and I have resolution.”
“You ought to go to bed now so that you will be fresh in the morning. I will take the things back to the Terrace.”
“Good night then. I will wake you in the morning.”
“You're my alarm clock，”the boy said.
“Age is my alarm clock，”the old man said.“Why do old men wake so early？Is it to have one longer day？”
“I don't know，”the boy said.“All I know is that young boys sleep late and hard.”
“I can remember it，”the old man said.“I'll waken you in time.”
“I do not like for him to waken me. It is as though I were inferior.”
“I know.”
“Sleep well old man.”
The boy went out. They had eaten with no light on the table and the old man took off his trousers and went to bed in the dark.He rolled his trousers up to make a pillow，putting the newspaper inside them.He rolled himself in the blanket and slept on the other old newspapers that covered the springs of the bed.
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，so white they hurt your eyes，and the high capes and the great brown mountains. 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 smelled the tar and oakum of the deck as he slept and he smelled the smell of Africa that the land breeze brought at morning.
Usually when he smelled the land breeze he woke up and dressed to go and wake the boy. But tonight the smell of the land breeze came very early and he knew it was too early in his dream and went on dreaming to see the white peaks of the Islands rising from the sea and then he dreamed of the different harbors and roadsteads of the Canary Islands.
He no longer dreamed of storms，nor of women，nor of great occurrences，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.They played like young cats in the dusk and he loved them as he loved the boy.He never dreamed about the boy.He simply woke，looked out the open door at the moon and unrolled his trousers and put them on.He urinated outside the shack and then went up the road to wake the boy.He was shivering with the morning cold.But he knew he would shiver himself warm and that soon he would be rowing.
The door of the house where the boy lived was unlocked and he opened it and walked in quietly with his bare feet. The boy was asleep on a cot in the first room and the old man could see him clearly with the light that came in from the dying moon.He took hold of one foot gently and held it until the boy woke and turned and looked at him.The old man nodded and the boy took his trousers from the chair by the bed and，sitting on the bed，pulled them on.
The old man went out the door and the boy came after him. He was sleepy and the old man put his arms across his shoulders and said，“I am sorry.”
“i Qué va！”the boy said.“It is what a man must do.”
They walked down the road to the old man's shack and all along the road，in the dark，barefoot men were moving，carrying the masts of their boats.
When they reached the old man's shack the boy took the rolls of line in the basket and the harpoon and gaff and the old man carried the mast with the furled sail on his shoulder.
“Do you want coffee？”the boy asked.
“We'll put the gear in the boat and then get some.”
They had coffee from condensed milk cans at an early morning place that served fishermen.
“How did you sleep old man？”the boy asked. He was waking up now although it was still hard for him to leave his sleep.
“Very well，Manolin，”the old man said.“I feel confident today.”
“So do I，”the boy said.“Now I must get your sardines and mine and your fresh baits. He brings our gear himself.He never wants anyone to carry any thing.”
“We're different.”the old man said.“I let you carry things when you were five years old.”
“I know it，”the boy said.“I'll be right back. Have another coffee.We have credit here.”
He walked off，barefooted on the coral rocks，to the ice house where the baits were stored.
The old man drank his coffee slowly. It was all he would have all day and he knew that he should take it.For a long time now eating had bored him and he never carried a lunch.He had a bottle of water in the bow of the skiff and that was all he needed for the day.
The boy was back now with the sardines and the two baits wrapped in a newspaper and they went down the trail to the skiff，feeling the pebbled sand under their feet，and lifted the skiff and slid her into the water.
“Good luck old man.”
“Good luck，”the old man said. He fitted the rope lashings of the oars onto the thole pins and，leaning forward against the thrust of the blades in the water，he began to row out of the harbor in the dark.There were other boats from the other beaches going out to sea and the old man heard the dip and push of their oars even though he could not see them now the moon was below the hills.
Sometimes someone would speak in a boat. But most of the boats were silent except for the dip of the oars.They spread apart after they were out of the mouth of the harbor and each one headed for the part of the ocean where he hoped to find fish.The old man knew he was going far out and he left the smell of the land behind and rowed out into the clean early morning smell of the ocean.He saw the phosphorescence of the Gulf weed in the water as he rowed over the part of the ocean that the fishermen called the great well because there was a sudden deep of seven hundred fathoms where all sorts of fish congregated because of the swirl the current made against the steep walls of the floor of the ocean.Here there were concentrations of shrimp and bait and sometimes schools of squid in the deepest holes and these rose close to the surface at night where all the wandering fish fed on them.
In the dark the old man could feel the morning coming and as he rowed he heard the trembling sound as flying fish left the water and the hissing that their stiff set wings made as they soared away in the darkness. He was very fond of flying fish as they were his principal friends on the ocean.He was sorry for thebirds，especially the small delicate dark terns that were always flying and looking and almost never finding，and he thought，“The birds have a harder life than we do except for the robber birds and the heavy strong ones.Why did they make birds so delicate and fine as those sea swallows when the ocean can be so cruel？She is kind and very beautiful.But she can be so cruel and it comes so suddenly and such birds that fly，dipping and hunting，with their small sad voices are made too delicately for the sea.”
He always thought of the sea as la mar which is what people call her in Spanish when they love her. Sometimes those who love her say bad things of her but they are always said as though she were a woman.Some of the younger fishermen，those who used buoys as floats for their lines and had motorboats，bought when the shark livers had brought much money，spoke of her as el mar which is masculine.They spoke of her as a contestant or a place or even an enemy.But the old man always thought of her as feminine and as something that gave or withheld great favors，and if she did wild or wicked things it was because she could not help them.The moon affects her as it does a woman，he thought.
He was rowing steadily and it was no effort for him since he kept well within his speed and the surface of the ocean was flat except for the occasional swirls of the current. He was letting the current do a third of the work and as it started to be light he saw he was al ready further out than he had hoped to be at this hour.
I worked the deep wells for a week and did nothing，he thought. Today I'll work out where the schools of bonita and albacore are and maybe there will be a big one with them.
Before it was really light he had his baits out and was drifting with the current. One bait was down forty fathoms.The second was at seventy-five and the third and fourth were down in the blue water at one hundred and one hundred and twenty-five fathoms.Each bait hung head down with the shank of the hook inside the bait fish，tied and sewed solid and all the projecting part of the hook，the curve and the point，was covered with fresh sardines.Each sardine was hooked through both eyes so that they made a half-garland on the projecting steel.There was no part of the hook that a great fish could feelwhich was not sweet smelling and good tasting.
The boy had given him two fresh small tunas，or albacores，which hung on the two deepest lines like plummets and，on the others，he had a big blue runner and a yellow jack that had been used before；but they were in good condition still and had the excellent sardines to give them scent and attractiveness. Each line，as thick around as a big pencil，was looped onto a green-apped stick so that any pull or touch on the bait would make the stick dip and each line had two fortyfathom coils which could be made fast to the other spare coils so that，if it were necessary，a fish could take out over three hundred fathoms of line.
Now the man watched the dip of the three sticks over the side of the skiff and rowed gently to keep the lines straight up and down and at their proper depths. It was quite light and any moment now the sun would rise.
The sun rose thinly from the sea and the old man could see the other boats，low on the water and well in toward the shore，spread out across the current. Then the sun was brighter and the glare came on the water and then，as it rose clear，the flat sea sent it back at his eyes so that it hurt sharply and he rowed without looking into it.He looked down into the water and watched the lines that went straight down into the dark of the water.He kept them straighter than anyone did，so that at each level in the darkness of the stream there would be a bait waiting exactly where he wished it to be for any fish that swam there.Others let them drift with the current and sometimes they were at sixty fathoms when the fishermen thought they were at a hundred.
But，he thought，I keep them with precision. Only I have no luck any more.But who knows？Maybe to day.Every day is a new day.It is better to be lucky.But I would rather be exact.Then when luck comes you are ready.
The sun was two hours higher now and it did not hurt his eyes so much to look into the east. There were only three boats in sight now and they showed very low and far inshore.
All my life the early sun has hurt my eyes，he thought. Yet they are still good.In the evening I can look straight into it without getting the blackness.It has more force in the evening too.But in the morning it is painful.
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