Book Report: 'Green Hills of Africa'

 

Green Hills of Africa by Ernest Hemingway
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

This slice of late-career Hemingway finds a man in a full-blown midlife crisis, chasing kudu in Tanzania as he pals around with guides, unwittingly throwing his weight around as a man of oblivious privilege as he waxes about the natural beauty in which he's trampling.

Wince-inducing moments abound, as he casually tosses off racist terms, takes joy in slaughtering big game, even though he's careful to note that he and his party keep precise track of all their booty to adhere to the restrictions of their licenses, and drinks himself to sleep.

In a book that probably registers more with hunters, the story unfolds in the manner of a not particularly engaging diary. On most days, nothing much of interest happens. The more interest moments occur in the dialogue he rehashes, pontificating on the plight of mid-20th century American literature and politics and grousing about the rumbling beginnings of the emerging military industrial complex.

This is a book that only a revered writer could get published, and although it's not his worst effort, it barely makes a gasp at approaching his greatest majesty. This is a story, told by a grumpy, disillusioned man who is making an awkward grasp at connecting with that which fame and fortune has distanced him from. There is something close to profound in the end product, but Hemingway is too busy chasing kudu to keep its scent.

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