Green Hills of Africa, by Ernest Hemingway

I'm sure when Hemingway wrote and published this, it was an exuberant account from a virile sportsman of a fabulous trip in a beautiful country. Unless you're Donald Trump Jr., it now reads as a horrifying litany of incredible creatures shot and killed for the sake of sport. Okay fine, they also eat their meat and give their hides to the locals, but it's still pretty jarring for the modern reader. Hemingway's rationale is that he's been shot, so at least he only shoots to kill. So I guess there's that. But it's hard to read about all these creatures being stalked, horribly wounded, then *if they're lucky* killed so some white guy can mount their heads on his wall and get lots of high fives from his bros.

I might have gone too far with that one. Sorry.

Distaste for shooting things aside, it's always interesting to read Hemingway. He states at the beginning that the goal of this book is to see whether a full and true account, well told, can be as interesting as a made up story. Answer: when Hemingway is writing it, it's practically the same thing. So I suppose the answer is yes? It's a credit to the writing that the subject matter didn't turn me off the book completely, though I did have to take a break from all the death halfway through. If you ignore the killing parts (difficult, admittedly), and instead focus on the description of the landscapes (gorgeous) and the campfire banter (hilarious), it's a pleasurable read to get lost in. Oh wait, have I mentioned the racism? Hoo boy, is there a lot of it... Not unexpected, of course, given the time period, but still uncomfortable to read. Every time he uses the word "savage" I winced. It certainly captures an era, though, and is best read as a kind of time capsule, or for a glimpse into one of America's greatest literary icons.

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