The Snows of Kilimanjaro- Ernest Hemingway

Summary: The entire story takes place from one afternoon to the next morning, in the middle of nowhere in Africa.  The main character, Harry, has gangrene in his leg, and he and his lover/wife Helen are waiting for a plane to pick them up, to take him to medical care.  The story consists of their exchanges throughout the course of the day; and of Harry’s memories.  These memories are one’s that Harry wanted to write about, but never did.  Harry believes he is going to die, but Helen tries to convince him to keep holding on.  At the end we as readers think Harry is going to die, and then there is a scene of an airplane to pick him up and we are supposed to think he will live, but it turns out to be really just some sort of dream and he dies.

Hemingway’s Purpose: Make people think about what they want to do before they die.  How they spend their life: what kind of company they keep, what kind of accomplishments they pursue, what kind of memories they want to think about before they die.

Hemingway’s Style: Writes in 3rd person limited omniscient, in regards to Harry, and partially Helen, but it could be that the details we learn about Helen are ones that Harry knows and is therefore thinking about.  He uses a lot of pronouns, we pretty much know he is talking about Harry when he says “he”, and we only see Helen’s name two times right at the end, but otherwise she is “she”.  In a couple random sentences he used “you” which was somewhat confusing.  He uses a lot of metaphors, some that don’t always make sense.  One I particularly like was: “There was no hardship; but there was no luxury and he had thought he could get back into training that way. That in some way he could work the fat off his soul the way a fighter went into the mountains to work and train in order to burn it out of his body.”  He uses commas very sparingly.

My Thoughts: I like this story a lot.  It was somewhat hard to keep up with, because the memories seemed random and sometimes I wouldn’t know what he was talking about, but I liked trying to piece it together.  I loved all the descriptions, like the one about a part of Paris he stayed in.  I also really like how he talked about death coming and going, using personification, like, “It came with a rush; not as a rush of water nor wind; but of a sudden evil-smelling emptiness and the odd thing was that the hyena slipped lightly along the edge of it.” and “He lay still and death was not there.  It must have gone around another street. It went in pairs, on bicycles, and moved absolutely silently on the pavements.”

Six Word Memoir

 

One with myself and African Skies.

 

Dog Poem

Dogs are crazy,

and act so lazy.

All they want to do is eat- and more than just meat.

Dogs eat the legs of chairs,

If we’d let them, they’d eat bears!

Though they always act like hogs,

We still love them as our dogs.

by Mara and Anna

Bedroom Windows

I am a lucky pair of windows, I rarely get covered up and I always have a first-rate view of the outside world, and the life of the occupant of my room.  During winter and summer, I observe two different atmospheres and the coherent behavior of the room and it’s dweller.

At this time of year I am always cold, even on rare days when it is sunny, I always lose heat from the room.  I can tell the resident of my room gets frustrated in my making the room so cold in the winter, because during this season she doesn’t spend much time here.  When it is cold, the room is full of clutter.  Clothes cover the floor and papers lay strewn about, surrounding the desk.  It seems as if everyday a new pile of junk is dumped on the floor before she changes and runs back out the door.  She leaves when it is dark, and returns when it is dark.  She burns candles that give the stagnant air a somewhat fresh smell, and whenever she is in the room for longer than five minutes, and not sleeping, there is some sort of music playing.  The best time of winter is after a fresh snow, when the flakes on the ground seem to reflect upon the sky, giving it a warm white glow, this is when I am happy to let in the light of the beautiful winter night. 

During the summertime, I know she loves me.  She spends hours staring at me, soaking up the summer air that I let in.  Sometimes she sits in the large patches of sunlight I throw onto the floor that shine through the dirty transparency of my southern face.  The best time is at night, when my screen stands bare, inches away from her head, and the cool wind blows her hair.  Those are the times when the soft music playing is not turned off as she falls into slumber, and the fluttering of posters and maps on the walls create a rhythmic beat.  And the only smells are of that of leaves and grass wafting through my open arms.

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