In a Farewell to Arms, Hemingway actually relied heavily on the use of the the rain as an important recurring image.
Rain is lovely during times of sorrow.
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Why did I even do this? I had woken up before dawn, and by the time it was time to leave I probably looked like a post-apocalyptic zombie. No, perhaps not that dramatic. Nor I bet anyone could tell. It was mainly what I felt. Those feelings dictated what I felt.
I had no inspiration even to go to that event. I was deathly tired, laying on my bed, half-apathetic, half ambivalent towards even going to it. Then why did I even go in the first place? Perhaps it was some innate desire, or some subconscious supposing part of my inner soul that some worthy element in indulging.
No, the second I arrived, I felt that I was out of place. I was not supposed to be here, I did not want to be here, I questioned the very existence of my being at this time and place, and when surrounded by a maelstrom of obnoxious people who obviously won’t remember anything valuable that you say to them during the night, it seemed that I was the odd one out. Ironic, since I did stick out with what I chose to wear. But I don’t know why; I had absolutely no motivation nor interest in dealing with any of these people. I don’t know why. So I just flipped over my cup in a self-designating sign of resignation over the crowded steps of the staircase and left.
It had started raining nearly an hour ago. Now, the rain fell in steady, large drops that fell on you and you could feel that they fell on you, but in the kind of state I was feeling, the rain seemed a kind of relief. I saw a flash of lightning. Walking home alone seemed such poetic justice to such a night, such a night I had no interest in, and such a night that I only tried to elongate my participation in through my own dogged subconscious and innate sinful desires.
I saw a flash of lightning.
And through the pelting rain I walked, walked past the elevated train, walked past closed shop fronts and a closed coffee shop in which I had walked through an hour ago in search of something to eat. I saw a flash of lighting.
I guess it wasn’t really a flash, since its reflected illuminated the whole sky, the low-lying clouds of grey blanketing the sky, a sky grey but brilliantly tinted orange by the lights of the downtown. I saw the sky being lit up by the flash of lighting.
In fact, the lightning came every few seconds.
I couldn’t hear the sound of the thunder, maybe through the pelting rain it was muffled, maybe through my troubled mind I wasn’t able to think of anything other than the sound of the pelting rain.
Of course, I still saw the flash of lightning flashing the night sky a shade of bright blue light every few seconds.
So why did I even do this? Did it seem some kind of poetic justice, that I would be walking home in the pelting rain with lightning flashing every few seconds and nothing else but myself and my thoughts to comfort me while I walked through the pelting rain and watching the lighting illuminate the night sky every few seconds without hearing thunder which made it seem like an unfinished conclusion.
It seemed like poetic justice.
I don’t give a damn if I catch a cold tomorrow.
It was poetic justice, letting myself purposefully disappoint myself by giving into my terrible, sinful, subconscious desires, letting myself do something stupid, letting myself walk out in a fit of rage, accompanied by the pelting rain and the lightning which illuminated the sky every few seconds.
So I walked down the middle of the street, not really caring if cars were around me, though at this hour there were very few cars on the street, and all I could hear was the pelting of the rain, the large raindrops coagulating on my shirt but I still didn’t care, and all I could do was watch the orange-tinted night sky being illuminated by the flashes of lighting that happened every few seconds.
The light of the streetlamps glazed through the now misty and foggy air. So did the headlights of the cars. Only a few were stopped at a red light ahead. Perhaps I could walk in the middle of the road for a few more seconds, and just feel the rain wet my shirt and pants, watch and feel myself step inadvertently into puddles of water and not caring if my shoes were wet though earlier in the day I had to deal with heavy rain, except there was no lighting, and I had an umbrella, but shoes still were drenched and I thought it was dreadful to deal with wet shoes, but now I cared not, as I saw a flash of lightning illuminate the night sky again.
Finally, I was almost back to where I had to be and almost to a place where I would be out of the rain.
Though at this point, I really was not consciously guiding myself back towards where I needed to be, and all I see was the dim light of the streetlamps half-heartedly trying to pierce through the misty sky.
I hear a helicopter.
And then I opened the door, and was out of the pelting rain but I was already soaked and probably was going to have a cold tomorrow. Such poetic justice to such a night.
