Green Hills of Africa: The Hemingway Library Edition
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The most intimate and elaborately enhanced addition to the Hemingway Library series: Hemingway’s memoir of his safari across the Serengeti—presented with archival material from the Hemingway Collection at the John F. Kennedy Library and with the never-before-published safari journal of Hemingway’s second wife, Pauline Pfeiffer.
When it was first published in 1935, The New York Times called Green Hills of Africa, “The best-written story of big-game hunting anywhere,” Hemingway’s evocative account of his safari through East Africa with his wife, Pauline Pfeiffer, captures his fascination with big-game hunting. In examining the grace of the chase and the ferocity of the kill, Hemingway looks inward, seeking to explain the lure of the hunt and the primal undercurrent that comes alive on the plains of Africa. Green Hills of Africa is also an impassioned portrait of the glory of the African landscape and the beauty of a wilderness that was, even then, being threatened by the incursions of man.
This new Hemingway Library Edition offers a fresh perspective on Hemingway’s classic travelogue, with a personal foreword by Patrick Hemingway, the author’s sole surviving son, who spent many years as a professional hunter in East Africa; a new introduction by Seán Hemingway, grandson of the author; and, published for the first time in its entirety, the African journal of Hemingway’s wife, Pauline, which offers an intimate glimpse into thoughts and experiences that shaped her husband’s craft.
to hunt kudu and Pop stayed in camp and sent us out alone with the trackers, Karl with Charo and M’Cola and I together, M’Cola dropped Pop visibly in his estimation. It was only temporary of course. He was Pop’s man and I believe his working estimations were only from day to day and required an unbroken series of events to have any meaning. But something had happened between us. GREEN HILLS OF AFRICA PARTII PURSUIT REMEMBERED CHAPTERTHREE IT DATED BACK TO the time of Droopy,
puncture the old man quick enough when he gets started.” “That’s what makes a woman a universal favorite,” P. O. M. told him. “Give me another compliment, Mr. J.” “By God, you’re brave as a little terrier.” Pop and I had both been drinking, it seemed. “That’s lovely,” P. O. M. sat far back in her chair, holding her hands clasped around her mosquito boots. I looked at her, seeing her quilted blue robe in the firelight now, and the light on her black hair. “I love it when you all reach the
gentlemen, or wished to be. They were all very respectable. They did not use the words that people always have used in speech, the words that survive in language. Nor would you gather that they had bodies. They had minds, yes. Nice, dry, clean minds. This is all very dull, I would not state it except that you ask for it.” “Go on.” “There is one at that time that is supposed to be really good, Thoreau. I cannot tell you about it because I have not yet been able to read it. But that means nothing
such as Kipling had. Then there must be discipline. The discipline of Flaubert. Then there must be the conception of what it can be and an absolute conscience as unchanging as the standard meter in Paris, to prevent faking. Then the writer must be intelligent and disinterested and above all he must survive. Try to get all these in one person and have him come through all the influences that press on a writer. The hardest thing, because time is so short, is for him to survive and get his work
right. Then, when we started to get in the car he broke away and started to climb up through the back and onto the loads. Garrick and Abdullah pulled him down. “You can’t go. There isn’t room.” He talked to me softly again, begging and pleading. “No, there is no room.” I remembered I had a small penknife and I got it out of my pocket and put it in his hand. He pushed it back in my hand. “No,” he said. “No.” He was quiet then and stood by the road. But when we started, he started to run