A Hemingway Idyll

Or, why I've spent so much of my life alienated from most of what Hemingway does/writes about:

from The Green Hills of Africa
Ernest Hemingway

This was the kind of hunting I liked. No riding in cars, the country broken up instead of the plains, and I was completely happy. I ha been quite ill and had that pleasant feeling of getting stronger each day. I was underweight, had a great appetite for meat, and could eat all I wanted without feeling stuffy. Each day I sweated out whatever we drank sitting at the fire at night, and in the heat of the day, now, I lay in the shade with a breeze in the trees and read with no obligation and no compulsion to write, happy in knowing that at four o'clock we would be starting out to hunt again. I would not even write a letter. The only person I really cared about except the children, was with me and I had no wish to share this life with any one who was not there, only to live it, being completely happy and quite tired. I knew that I was shooting well and I had that feeling of well being and confidence that is so much more pleasant to have than to hear about.

I have a pretty strong feeling this is one that is going to go unfinished.  I've yet to encounter a single remarkable sentence, image, thought, or expression.  Perhaps because it is non-fiction.  I'm disappointed.  I had hoped for something akin to A Moveable Feast. Oh, well.


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