Ernest Hemingway

Green Hills of Africa

Green hills of Africa

Jeremy Anderberg

Truthfully, I don’t really know what it is that I love about Papa Hem. But I can’t help it. I’m irrevocably drawn to his words.

Green Hills of Africa chronicles his 1933 big game hunting excursion with his wife and friends. They hunt, they rest under the shade of a tree, they drink around a campfire at night, and repeat in the morning. There were numerous times where I had the thought that this is basically a non-fiction version of The Sun Also Rises (a book I love and have read a few times).

There’s not much plot, to be honest. Welcome to Hemingway, though. His novels are never reliant on the story itself to turn the pages. That turns some people off; to me, it’s just all the more impressive that he convinces me to turn the pages.

This one reads like any of his fiction does: like a letter from an old friend—the prose is not ornate or artful, but it is thoughtful and real and meaningful nonetheless. Scattered among the hunting tales are Hemingway’s thoughts on writing and literature, on “pursuit as happiness,” and on the invigorating but sometimes infuriating nature of competition. 

In fact, those bits about writing and literature were perhaps the most interesting. The group discusses why Hemingway writes:

“I have a good life but I must write because if I do not write a certain amount I do not enjoy the rest of my life.”

The rewards of writing:

“Do you think your writing is worth doing—as an end in itself?” 
Oh, yes. 
“You are sure?” 
Very sure. ]

The cornerstone of American literature:

“All modern American literature comes from one book by Mark Twain called Huckleberry Finn. . . . it’s the best book we’ve had. All American writing comes from that. There was nothing before. There has been nothing as good since.”

There is, of course, plenty of hunting scenes too. Though it’s sometimes squeamish for modern sensibilities, his ethic towards hunting is, perhaps surprisingly, well-thought-out: “I resolved that I would only shoot as long as I could kill cleanly and as soon as I lost that ability I would stop.” He lamented the poor “gut shots” that left an animal suffering.

Overall, I really enjoyed it. It’s as worthy of reading as anything Hemingway penned. Though he complained about the bugs and the wet heat and the sting of failure, he found satisfaction in those things and made them appealing enough for me to even yearn for those same hard-earned and, ultimately, fulfilling experiences.

Green Hills of Africa

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