A non-fiction account of Ernest Hemingway's two-month long safari in Africa during the winter of 1933, Green Hills of Africa was truly enjoyable to me. Hemingway's voice is what makes this book so captivating. His descriptions of the vast and diverse land, the magnificent animals that roam freely, and the interesting people he meets along the way are nothing short of excellent. The dialogues and the back and forth between himself and his companions add a touch of humor at times, making it an engaging read. I especially relished reading the conversations with "Pop" a.k.a. Jackson Phillips, an old big-game hunting friend of Hemingway.

Although I have no personal interest in hunting, it was fascinating to follow the group as they traveled and traversed the harsh yet beautiful terrain in search of several different animals. Hemingway makes it clear a few times that he will only shoot to kill an animal, as maiming or hurting it is cruel in his eyes. He will only attempt to end an animal's life if he can do so as quickly as possible. I appreciate his stance on this, at least.

"The Short, Happy Life of Francis Macomber" is, I firmly believe, my favorite short story of Hemingway's. So, reading this account in Green Hills of Africa was a delight. I also simply enjoy the way he writes, his attention to detail when it comes to people, their characteristics, and their dialogue. I felt as if I was right there in Africa with them, although I would have been completely terrified trying to sneak up on a rhino or a lion. No thank you to that!

"Green Hills of Africa" is a work of such kind that even without a captivating and original story, it manages to draw the reader in from the first to the last page, thanks to its all-encompassing atmosphere and vivid text.

In this autobiographical novel, Ernest Hemingway describes his amazing safari in Africa when he went hunting for rhinoceroses, lions, antelopes, and many others with his wife.

The author, in the format of an autobiography, has boxed himself into certain frames, to some extent spoiling the intrigue and forcing himself to write only what really happened to him. And the thing is that besides the safari, sometimes successful, sometimes not so much, nothing else really happened to the author. He would go hunting, hunt, and then come back from the hunt, eat and drink in the company of other hunters, chatting about whatever came to his mind, and then sleep. So it turns out that you don't read this book for the action, not to find out what will happen next, but to better immerse yourself in the enveloping atmosphere of life and hunting in Africa, which Hemingway managed to convey so beautifully. And also to get into the mind of this great author and find out how he lived.

As in other works, the author's text is amazing, filled with beautiful descriptions, interesting thoughts, and wonderful dialogues. This time he describes the beauties of the African nature, as well as the nuances and peculiarities of the safari, some of which will not be very pleasant for women and children, which makes this novel more masculine. Everything related to hunting is very cruel and detailed in this work. Hemingway always had good thoughts, and the dialogues also turned out well. At the same time, for a while there were so many of them that it all reminded of a Tarantino movie script when people just talk for hours. Here they constantly discussed different countries, writers, their works, went through Mark Twain, Edgar Poe, and Herman Melville with his monumental "Moby Dick", and also remembered many others.

In the end, despite the lack of a large number of emotions from the story, which does not surprise with plot twists and does not pamper with events, but just goes forward monotonously, the novel is definitely worth reading, especially for fans of the author's work. But yes, I would recommend it more to men who like hunting and fishing, and also books about this.

Well, what a pleasant and leisurely read this was.

Unlike other Hemingway books on similar subjects of hunting in Africa, there wasn't a sense of masculinity of "Man kill animal" for the fun of it, followed by in-depth detail of skinning an animal for a trophy. Here you do have "the hunt", but it is more of the human interaction rather than "the kill itself".

Hemingway does focus many of his stories on his personal experiences. Africa and hunting are a huge part of it. Alas, how he glorifies much of his experiences does not help the overkilling of many animals in today's society. However, putting this aside, it was a rather enjoyable read. The way he describes the landscapes and the people he encounters during the hunt adds a layer of richness to the story. It makes the reader feel as if they are right there with him, experiencing the adventure. Despite the controversial topic of hunting, Hemingway manages to tell a story that is both engaging and thought-provoking.

Ernest Hemingway's "The Green Hills of Africa"

Genre: memoirs.

In this autobiographical prose, the author's passion for hunting and his love for traveling are depicted. He sets off with his wife to distant Africa to demonstrate his skills as a marksman and enjoy the nature of these green places.

It was interesting to be in Ernest Hemingway's mind, as everything written is based on real events. But I completely cannot share the author's feelings about shooting at live targets: when animals were killed in the book, especially rhinoceroses, my heart sank.

A rather interesting dialogue takes place at the beginning of the work: about modern American writers and about what prevents them from creating masterpieces.

What I liked most was the author's statement that not everything written turns out well, but what does turn out well lasts for centuries.

The landscapes in the work are very beautiful, and the variety of animals described in it is also amazing: lions, antelopes, zebras, flamingos, leopards. How can people not feel sorry for shooting such wonderful creatures just for pleasure? I don't understand.

But no matter what demons Hemingway was possessed by, his personality is interesting, and thanks to such autobiographical sketches, one can get closer to the writer.

I deeply hate hunting, so this is definitely not the book for me. However, I expected more of Africa, more of nature, more of the relationship between man and wild nature, and fewer scenes, even explicit ones, of the killing of animals. My repulsion is nevertheless tempered by the fact that the story is dated (1935) and that it is well written. But I would have given 1 star because of the hunting aspect.

Green Hills of Africa

Ernest Hemingway

Translation: Attilio Bertolucci - Alberto Rossi

Publisher: Mondadori

Pages: 279

Rating: 3/5

Despite my aversion to hunting, I decided to give this book a try. I was hoping to find a vivid portrayal of Africa's natural beauty and the complex interactions between humans and the wild. While the book does offer some interesting insights into the African landscape and the experiences of the characters, the frequent descriptions of hunting scenes left me feeling uncomfortable.

The fact that the story was written in 1935 may explain some of the attitudes towards hunting that are expressed. At that time, hunting was perhaps more widely accepted as a form of sport or a means of survival. However, from a modern perspective, I find it difficult to overlook the ethical implications of killing animals for entertainment.

Nevertheless, I have to admit that Hemingway's writing is excellent. He has a talent for creating vivid images and capturing the essence of a place and its people. The descriptions of the African hills and plains are truly breathtaking, and I could almost feel the heat and dust of the savannah.

Overall, while I cannot give this book a higher rating due to my personal feelings about hunting, I do think it is worth reading for its literary value. It offers a fascinating glimpse into a bygone era and a different way of life.

I don't care for hunting. It seems rather cruel to me to pursue and kill animals for sport. The idea of taking the life of a living creature just for the thrill of it doesn't sit well with my conscience.

And I don't care much for safari neither. While some might find it exciting to observe wild animals in their natural habitats from a safe distance, it still feels a bit too much like a staged spectacle. I would rather see these animals thriving in their ecosystems without any human interference.

There are so many other ways to experience and appreciate nature. We can go for hikes, enjoy the beauty of forests, mountains, and rivers. We can watch birds, listen to their songs, and learn about their behaviors. We can plant trees, help protect endangered species, and make a positive impact on the environment.

In conclusion, I believe that there are more meaningful and ethical ways to connect with nature than through hunting or safari.

Hemingway had no interest in answering the question: "Which American writer is the best?" In a book that is like an interview with himself, he mentioned the name #Poe _I quite agree_ and then tried hard to mention one or two other names and accuse them of being overly praised like #Herman Melville. His efforts paid off and he became one of the best even before his death.

His whole life was a journey of adventure in the 1920s and 1930s, sometimes in war and sometimes in the cafes of Paris; that human cruelty and harshness and this human light and warmth. He took something from each and finally returned to America to claim the title of the best American writer for himself. And then he shot himself. _Something that I don't understand at all why!?_ But in a certain place in the book #The Green Hills of Africa when he kind of explains his reason for his interest in hunting, he wrote: "....but you know its value, or that you are doing something that society doesn't take seriously, but you know that it is really important and has always been as important as the big things in life; and when you have been intimate with it on the river and you know the current of the water that you live with, you recognize it, you learn about it and you love it, it has been in the current just as it is now in the current." In this way, he described hunting as a desirable thing, a personal thing; that's why I think his death was also a completely personal thing and there is no need to struggle so much about it or, for example, attribute madness and insanity to it. Reading one or two works of Hemingway from the very beginning of the work convinces you that you have a very famous and crazy mind. There is no need for the type of his death to prove anything. Hunting is not a pleasant thing for me. Killing and eating animals, especially when you are not a professional and your hands don't come out of the water clean and you hear the terrified voice of the animal when you eat its meat. That's why when I realized that the story was about hunting and chasing animals, I got very bored reading it. I thought to myself that I would read it anyway, and probably I didn't want to finish it, but that wasn't the case. Well, Hemingway is a great writer. It doesn't matter what he writes about, he does it in such a way that you don't even want to write a worthless word from his pen. So far, on Thursday afternoon _including eating and chatting after lunch_, I have spent reading a whole book. It was about hunting and many other things, friendship, love, cooperation and then the wonderful scenes of Africa, the little ants, the hills, the green jungles, the crocodiles and the hippos and the panthers and the terrors, the wild rivers and the deserts and the cacti, descriptions so vivid that you saw yourself in front of a Fauvist painting or a three-dimensional movie. Pleasure and adventure. Hemingway is great and I think he really wanted to be asked who the best writer is and he would say well, of course, himself.

Memoirs of an Intelligent Killer.

This kind of reading material is truly eye-catching.

The title alone immediately piques one's curiosity.

One wonders what kind of story lies within these memoirs.

Is it a tale of a brilliant mind turned to a life of crime?

Or perhaps it is a exploration of the motives and thoughts of a killer who happens to be intelligent.

As one delves into the pages, they are likely to encounter a complex and captivating narrative.

The author may share details of the killer's upbringing, education, and the events that led them down this dark path.

There could be descriptions of the crimes themselves, the planning involved, and the psychological state of the killer during these acts.

Overall, "Memoirs of an Intelligent Killer" promises to be a fascinating and thought-provoking read.

Near the conclusion of this novel, the narrator, named Hemingway (with no attempt at disguise in the first-person narration), declares that 'A country was made to be as we found it.' Africa held that significance for Hemingway, and this 'novel' is truly more of an extended journal documenting his enjoyment of hunting there. It is his elaborate rhapsody of love for its simple pleasures, especially hunting.

The rules for a good hunter are numerous and crucial. One must never shoot a cow, only the bull of a species. This rule is exponentially amplified if the cow is with calf. One must strive to shoot to kill, never to wound, aiming high for the head, heart, or lungs, and never low to avoid 'gut shooting' a beast and spending hours tracking the dying creature. If the shooting is easy, like that of ducks in a swampy area, one should take the 'fine shots' of exceptional difficulty. One should attempt to kill with the first shot, but if that fails, it is doubly incumbent to kill with subsequent shots. When stalking prey, it is better to go on foot rather than by motor vehicle. One must be conscious of the need for patience to avoid a rise in heart rate and respiration, which could affect shooting accuracy. One should try to avoid feeling jealous of more successful hunters, although no one in the novel manages to completely avoid it. If such a feeling does overcome one, it is advisable to wait until the next day as the feeling may have dissipated.

The novel begins and generally ends with kudus as the game, while rhinos, sables, buffalo, and ducks are also hunted. There is a spine-tingling encounter with an unseen but often heard lion in the high grass, from which Hemingway wisely backs away. Additionally, the novel touches on a great deal of literature, with direct reference and analysis of Poe, Melville, Emerson, Hawthorne, Whittier, Thoreau, James, Crane, Twain, Kipling, Flaubert, Dostoevsky, and Tolstoy. The native peoples who serve as guides and bearers for Hemingway, Karl, Pop, and P.O.M. (presumably Hemingway's wife) are well-described and engaging. The unwavering resolve of M'Cola, the off-putting antics of Garrick, the graceful strut of Droopy, and the final pathetic attachment of the old man are all written with a critical yet ultimately sympathetic eye.

There is no real narrative development; they hunt one day, then the next, sometimes together and sometimes separately, with varying degrees of success. It is all part of the tableau of the title's topographical image, a paean of love for this continent. As Hemingway put it in a passage that rivals the passionate enthusiasm of his best writing from For Whom the Bell Tolls: 'I loved the country so that I was happy as you are after you have been with a woman you really love, when, empty, you feel it welling up again and there it is and you can never have it all and yet what there is, now, you can have, and you want more and more, to have, to be, and live in the possession again, for always, for that long, sudden ending always, making time stand still, sometimes so very still that afterwards you wait to hear it move and it is slow in starting.' When Hemingway writes like this, he approaches the heart of one's love of life as closely as James Joyce or D.H. Lawrence ever did. Few writers even imagine that such a feeling is possible, but Hemingway not only felt it but came as close as anyone I've read to describing it in palpable terms. That this feeling arose for him through the, to me, barbaric sport of killing animals is immaterial. As the narrator states, his impact on the total numbers of each species he hunted was statistically insignificant, and they always ate the meat and kept the horns. The fact that he realizes the importance of that feeling and savors it to the fullest, enabling him to write about it in such a compelling manner, makes him one of the true giants of literature.

Absolutely first rate.

I delved into Hemingway's novel as part of my research for my upcoming book. My book is centered around a white hunter who finds himself in a confrontation with a mystical creature summoned by a witch doctor seeking revenge on those who doubt his magic. Since my story is set in the 1950s, I needed to gain insights into the safari life of that era. So far, I have come across several highly entertaining books on this subject.

Personally, I have no inclination towards hunting and have never engaged in it. However, I do not hold any animosity towards hunters. After learning about the reasons why many people hunt, I have developed a better understanding. Hunting has been an integral part of human survival since the dawn of time. For those who can appreciate the spirit of hunting, a unique bond is formed between man and beast. It's important to note that not all hunters share the same views, as they hunt for different motives.

Hemingway's account of his two-month journey in Africa with his wife Pauline in 1933 intrigued me. This was a time when the Great Depression was at its peak, and only the affluent could afford a safari while the majority of the world was struggling to make ends meet. His book begins rather slowly and fails to pick up much momentum. Although he describes hunting in sufficient detail, it doesn't surpass the descriptions found in some of the other books I've read on the subject.

Early on in the book, Hemingway briefly touches upon his love for writing. He remarks that a writer is no good when they write with the critics in mind. He believed that a writer starts writing for critics after being praised by them as a good writer. He further elaborates on how this leads to hurried and subpar work. This observation struck me as strange, considering that some of Hemingway's famous short stories also seemed to be written in a rushed manner. When I read works like "The Snows of Kilimanjaro," "The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber," and "The Killers," I couldn't help but wonder why he didn't expand them into full-fledged novels. It seemed to me that he had simply lost his enthusiasm for writing but continued to do so because it was expected of him. I had this impression even before reading "Green Hills of Africa."

When Hemingway describes going on a hunt with askaris (gun-bearers) and wapagazis (porters), he uses plain and simple language. However, it lacks the excitement that you would find in books like Brian Herne's "White Hunters: The Golden Age of African Safaris," Peter Capstick's "Death in the Long Grass," or Robert Ruark's excellent "Horn of the Hunter." I have the utmost respect for Hemingway, but his book "Green Hills of Africa" fails to truly capture his burning desire for hunting and the adventure of a lifetime. I appreciate his ability to travel during a time when it was uncommon for the average person, but I was left longing for more thrilling tales of hunters in the bush, facing off against dangerous animals that could easily end a human life if a shot missed its mark. If you are a fan of Hemingway's novels, then by all means, get a copy of this book. But don't expect it to be an exciting account of life on an African safari. The other books I mentioned do a much better job of fulfilling that expectation.

It is not the proper way of hunting. It closely resembles those boys who were once dispatched to Paris for two years to prove themselves as writers or painters. After that period, if they failed to succeed, they could return home and enter their fathers' businesses. The correct approach to hunting is to engage in it for as long as you live, as long as there are certain animals. Just as the way to paint persists as long as you, colours, and canvas exist, and the way to write endures as long as you can live and there is pencil, paper, ink, or any machine to facilitate it, or anything you desire to write about. You would be a fool to do it any other way. However, here we are, now, trapped by time, the season, and the depletion of our funds. As a result, what should have been an enjoyable activity each day, regardless of whether you killed an animal or not, is being compelled into that most thrilling distortion of life; the necessity of achieving something in less time than what should truly be permitted for its accomplishment.

Reading this brief account by Hemingway about a hunting expedition worked wonders in transporting me to the beautiful landscape of Tanzania! Amid the occasional pauses when he is not reporting on the hunting and killing of animals and the skinning for hide and horns, he deftly introduces the topics of war and literature. Hemingway sustains his engaging narrative style in nonfiction as skillfully and neatly as he does in his fiction.

Here is an observation of his regarding writing and reception that I found amusing:

'We undermine them in numerous ways. Firstly, economically. They earn money. It is only by chance that a writer makes money, although good books ultimately always generate revenue. Then, when our writers have amassed some wealth, they raise their standard of living and become ensnared. They have to write to maintain their establishments, their wives, and so forth, and they produce inferior work. It is not intentionally bad but rather due to haste. Because they write when there is nothing to say or when the well is dry. Because they are ambitious. Then, once they have betrayed themselves, they rationalize it, and more subpar writing emerges. Or else they read the critics. If they believe the critics when they are lauded as great, then they must also believe them when they are condemned as lousy, and they lose confidence. Currently, we have two talented writers who are unable to write because they have lost confidence by reading critics. If they wrote, sometimes it would be excellent, sometimes not so good, and sometimes it would be quite poor, but the good work would surface. However, they have read the critics and now feel compelled to write masterpieces. The masterpieces that the critics声称 they had written. Of course, they weren't actually masterpieces. They were just fairly good books. So now they can't write at all. The critics have rendered them impotent.'

This is a rather difficult book to review.

I have never had the same level of enjoyment from Hemingway's fiction as I have from that of others of his era, such as John Steinbeck or Sinclair Lewis.

That being said, this particular book holds a certain specialness. It provides unique insights into Hemingway's personality, which is characterized by a penchant for killing everything that comes within his gunsights, excessive drinking, uncontrolled aggression, competition with his fellow hunters, and a combination of anger and condescension towards his African guides.

Hemingway's account of this trip seems more like an affirmation of his manhood rather than a typical travelogue. Phrases like "great white hunter" and "Bwana Boss" are used liberally.

However, he does display great affection and compassion for his wife, which is quite endearing.

This book not only describes the special Africa but also, by contrast, reveals a man who is emotionally out of control.

He does write with a lovely sense of compassion about Africa and shows that he is aware of his emotional overreactions.

Nevertheless, the book gives a hint of the life that he will face in the future.

I am definitely glad that I read this book. I enjoyed it more than a significant portion of his fiction, yet I also found it both sad and revealing.