The Snows of Kilimanjaro - Ernest Hemingway - Google Books The Snows of Kilimanjaro 0 Reviews Men and women of passion and action live, fight, love and die in scenes of dramatic intensity. From haunting tragedy on the snow-capped peak of Kilimanjaro to brutal sensationalism in the bullring; from rural America with its deceptive calm to the heart of war-ravaged Europe, each of the stories in this classic collection is a feat of imagination, and a masterpiece of description. The Snows of Kilimanjaro is one of the best known and loved collections of stories by one of the greatest literary novelists of the twentieth century. What people are saying - Write a review We haven't found any reviews in the usual places. View all » About the author (1994) Ernest Miller Hemingway was born in Chicago in 1899 as the son of a doctor and the second of six children. After a stint as an ambulance driver at the Italian front, Hemingway came home to America in 1919, only to return to the battlefield - this time as a reporter on the Greco-Turkish war - in 1922.

Resigning from journalism to focus on his writing instead, he moved to Paris where he renewed his earlier friendship with fellow American expatriates such as Ezra Pound and Gertrude Stein. Through the years, Hemingway travelled widely and wrote avidly, becoming an internationally recognized literary master of his craft. He received the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1954, following the publication of The Old Man and the Sea. He died in 1961. 9780099460923: The Snows of Kilimanjaro - AbeBooks - Hemingway, Ernest: 0099460920 The Snows of Kilimanjaro ISBN 10: 0099460920 ISBN 13: 9780099460923 Publisher: London:, 2004 About this title In these early Hemingway stories, which are partly autobiographical, men and women of passion live, fight, love and die in scenes of dramatic intensity.

They range from haunting tragedy on the snow-capped peak of Kilimanjaro, to brutal America with its deceptive calm, and war-ravaged Europe. "synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title. Review: Returning from a Kenyan safari in 1932, Ernest Hemingway quickly devised a literary trophy to add to his stash of buffalo hides and rhino horns. To this day, Green Hills of Africa seems an almost perverse paean to the thrills of bloodshed, in which the author cuts one notch after another in his gun barrel and declares, "I did not mind killing anything." Four years later, however, Hemingway came up with a more accomplished spin on his African experiences--a pair of them, in fact, which he collected with eight other tales in The Snows of Kilimanjaro. The title story is a meditation on corruption and mortality, two subjects that were already beginning to preoccupy the 37-year-old author. As the protagonist perishes of gangrene out in the bush, he recognizes his own failure of nerve as a writer: Now he would never write the things that he had saved to write until he knew enough to write them well.

Well, he would not have to fail at trying to write them either. Maybe you could never write them, and that was why you put them off and delayed the starting. Well he would never know, now. In the story, at least, the hero gets some points for stoic acceptance, as well as an epiphanic vision of Kilimanjaro's summit, "wide as all the world, great, high, and unbelievably white in the sun." (The movie version is another matter: Gregory Peck makes it back to the hospital, loses a leg, and is a better person for it.) But Hemingway's other great white hunter, in "The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber," is granted a less dignified exit. This time the issue is cowardice, another of Papa's bugaboos: poor Francis is too wimpy to face down a wounded lion, let alone satisfy his treacherous wife in bed. Yet he does manage a last-minute triumph before dying--an absolute assertion of courage--which makes the title a hair less ironic than it initially seems. No wonder these are two of the highest-caliber (so to speak) tales in the Hemingway canon.

--Bob Brandeis About the Author: Ernest Hemingway was born in Chicago in 1899, the second of six children. In 1917, he joined the Kansas City Star as a cub reporter. The following year, he volunteered as an ambulance driver on the Italian front, where he was badly wounded but decorated for his services. He returned to America in 1919, and married in 1921. In 1922, he reported on the Greco-Turkish war before resigning from journalism to devote himself to fiction. He settled in Paris, associating with other expatriates like Ezra Pound and Gertrude Stein. He was passionately involved with bullfighting, big-game hunting and deep-sea fishing. Recognition of his position in contemporary literature came in 1954 when he was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature, following the publication of The Old Man and the Sea. He died in 1961. "About this title" may belong to another edition of this title.

Book review -- Ernest Hemingway THE SNOWS OF KILIMANJARO AND OTHER STORIES THE SNOWS OF KILIMANJARO AND OTHER STORIES Ernest Hemingway New York: Macmillan Publishing Company, 1961 154 pages Comments by Bob Corbett April 2014 Most of the stories for this collection were published in magazines in the 1930s. They are quite short, very macho and well-written. Hemingway uses language carefully and sparingly. He talks tough and rough, and to the point. I would have disliked virtually every situation in the set of stories, and most likely never have gotten myself into such messes, yet I enjoyed his telling of the stories very much and was much impressed with Hemingway�s writing. THE SNOWS OF KILIMANJARO As the story opens Harry is in Africa and very sick in bed. He has an infection in his leg and may well die. He is with a woman, whom he never calls by name, but we find out she is Helen. She is rich and beautiful and the two have travelled all over, she funding it all.

He and this woman have used each other with little sincerity, but he tends to think that the ease of this life kills his talent. Harry is in and out of consciousness, partly because of his infected leg and partly from drink. He constantly returns to ideas he has for things he needs to write and memories of his life in Paris, Istanbul and other places. They are waiting for a plane to come and take him to safety. All this happens within the shadows of Mount Kilimanjaro. Harry just isn�t a nice guy. He�s self-centered, a user of rich and beautiful females, but they tend to come and pay willingly. He sees himself as a writer who just never fully finished the things he had to write. It is difficult not to read the story as a bit of self-revelation. Much of Harry�s story sounds like what we know of Hemingway�s life! A CLEAN, WELL-LIGHTED PLACE The story opens in a caf� with an old man sitting alone at a table. It is quite late, well after midnight, and while the caf� is scheduled to stay open much later, the two waiters can leave if the old man leaves and the place is empty.

The old fellow is a bit drink, drinking cognac one after the other. He can afford it. He isn�t happy and doesn�t really want to leave. One waiter doesn�t care at all; home isn�t so pleasant for him. The other man would like to see them close up and he could go home to his wife. The waiters talk about the man, the one feeling sorry for him, the other not. He�s rich, but very unhappy, and the one waiter can�t understand being rich yet unhappy. Not much happens really, they just talk this out, a bit of gossip about the old fellow, who does eventually leave and they close up. The story is well written and told. I could picture the situation with clarity and marveled at Hemingway making a story about so little. A DAY�S WAIT A young boy is ill and his father informs him that he has 102 temperature. The boy is very sad and convinced he is going to die. His father assures him that�s silly, it�s a fever and he�ll get over it. But he continues to fret beyond any reasonable mode. Finally the father pushes hard on the theme he simply won�t die, this is a normal fever.

It then comes out that the boy had lived in Europe and had heard of kids dying with only 60 degrees temperature and he knows for sure he will die. His father explains to him the different measures of temperatures and that 102 in Fahrenheit is only slightly above the 98 degrees normal temperature. This comforts the boy and he sleeps off his illness. It�s a very short but quite cute story with this delightful twist in the ending. THE GAMBLER, THE NUN, AND THE RADIO A Mexican gambler is shot in a bar and taken to the hospital. He is going to live and is questioned by the police, but tells them nothing. He actually speaks a bit of English, but doesn�t tell the truth so that and all conversations with others go through a hospital administrator/translator, who never really tells the police what the fellow said. The administrator is interested in the Mexican and talks a good deal with him. It seems to be sometime just before the depression, but after WWI. The times are good, but Fascism is on the rise in Europe. A central entertainment for this remote western hospital centers in the radio, but the signal isn�t good and it is ruined by x-ray machines when they are used.

We just hear the everyday stories of the hospital, a pious nun who wishes to be a saint and is, in fact, a sport�s fan, especially of �Catholic� teams. A very simple and clever tale. FATHERS AND SONS Nick Adams is driving in the area where he grew up. He has many memories of his father, hunting and fishing, and of the local Indian children he played with. He drives and dwells on his memories. IN ANOTHER COUNTRY The narrator is in a hospital in Milan, having been wounded in the war. There is a group of American officers and they are trying out experimental machines to help heal their wounds, but they don�t seem to work. The story emphasizes the horrors of war. THE KILLERS Two hoods, seemingly from Chicago, walk into a diner in a small rural town. They�re looking for a Swedish fellow whom they blurt right out, they intend to kill. The clash between the relatively polite and innocent workers and customer in the diner, and the gangster-talking killers is simply marvelous. Nothing much happens. The target Swede doesn�t show up for dinner and the hoods just leave.

When Nick, the one customer in the diner, hurries over to see the Swede to warn him Nick is shocked that the Swede doesn�t plan to run or hide. He�s tired of it. He knows they will eventually catch up with him, so he just thanks Nick and stays put. Not much in the story itself, but Hemingway�s TELLING of it is masterful. He captures the hoods, the fatalistic mark, and the nice country town guys. It�s magnificent writing. A WAY YOU�LL NEVER BE Nick is an American soldier wounded and shell shocked in the war. He is sent to visit a forward unit somewhere in Italy. He is there for show alone, to give the appearance that the Americans are coming soon. But he has one of his spells bought on by the lasting effects of his having been gassed. There is little to the story, but Hemingway vividly captures the sight and spirit of the front line and the horrors of war and its injuries. What an awful war! FIFTY GRAND A scam is in the making. A sort of washed up boxer is about to fight a big match in Madison Garden in New York.

He�s training in New Jersey, but his heart isn�t into it. He�s over the hill, finished, but needs this money. Two of his associates arrive to speak with him, and they sort of make it clear he should BE SURE he loses this fight, and he agrees, mainly because he knows he can�t win. So, he follows their advice to bet HUGELY against himself. However, surprises for all come in the fight itself. This is another marvelously told story where Hemingway seems inside the heads of the boxers, the hoods, the fight manger and trainer, all of the principals of the story. THE SHORT HAPPY LIFE OF FRANCIS MACOMBER Macomber is an American on a hunting trip to Africa with his wife, Margot. They�ve hired Wilson, a tough white guide and a troupe of Africans who work for Wilson. The day the story begins they�ve killed a lion, but Macomber choked up on the kill like a complete coward and Wilson saved his life and the day. Margot is disgusted with her husband and dislikes Wilson a great deal. The feelings are mutual all round.

The second day they hunt buffalo and the story�s ending is a freak accident � maybe. The story is well told, exciting, the pace and feeling matching the hunting scene quite well. Of course, in full Hemingway style, it is macho to the core. Ernest Hemingway - Biographical Ernest Hemingway The Nobel Prize in Literature 1954 Ernest Hemingway Share this: Ernest Hemingway - Biographical Ernest Hemingway (1899-1961), born in Oak Park, Illinois, started his career as a writer in a newspaper office in Kansas City at the age of seventeen. After the United States entered the First World War, he joined a volunteer ambulance unit in the Italian army. Serving at the front, he was wounded, was decorated by the Italian Government, and spent considerable time in hospitals. After his return to the United States, he became a reporter for Canadian and American newspapers and was soon sent back to Europe to cover such events as the Greek Revolution. During the twenties, Hemingway became a member of the group of expatriate Americans in Paris, which he described in his first important work, The Sun Also Rises (1926).

Equally successful was A Farewell to Arms (1929), the study of an American ambulance officer's disillusionment in the war and his role as a deserter. Hemingway used his experiences as a reporter during the civil war in Spain as the background for his most ambitious novel, For Whom the Bell Tolls (1940). Among his later works, the most outstanding is the short novel, The Old Man and the Sea (1952), the story of an old fisherman's journey, his long and lonely struggle with a fish and the sea, and his victory in defeat. Hemingway - himself a great sportsman - liked to portray soldiers, hunters, bullfighters - tough, at times primitive people whose courage and honesty are set against the brutal ways of modern society, and who in this confrontation lose hope and faith. His straightforward prose, his spare dialogue, and his predilection for understatement are particularly effective in his short stories, some of which are collected in Men Without Women (1927) and The Fifth Column and the First Forty-Nine Stories (1938). Hemingway died in Idaho in 1961.

From Nobel Lectures , Literature 1901-1967, Editor Horst Frenz, Elsevier Publishing Company, Amsterdam, 1969 This autobiography/biography was written at the time of the award and first published in the book series Les Prix Nobel . It was later edited and republished in Nobel Lectures . To cite this document, always state the source as shown above. Selected Bibliography Baker, Carlos. Hemingway: The Writer as Artist. Fourth edition, Princeton University Press: Princeton, NJ, 1972. Bruccoli, Matthew J. (Ed.). Ernest Hemingway's apprenticeship: Oak Park, 1916-1917. NCR Microcard Editions: Washington, D.C., 1971. Bruccoli, Matthew J., and Robert W. Trogdon (Eds.). The Only Thing That Counts: The Ernest Hemingway-Maxwell Perkins Correspondence 1925-1947. Charles Scribner's Sons: New York, 1996. Clifford, Stephen P. Beyond the Heroic "I": Reading Lawrence, Hemingway, and "masculinity".

Bucknell Univ. Press: Cranbury, NJ, 1999. Hemingway, Ernest. By-Line: Ernest Hemingway. Selected articles and dispatches of four decades. Edited by William White, with commentaries by Philip Young. Collins: London, 1968. - Complete poems. Edited with an introduction and notes by Nicholas Gerogiannis. Rev. ed., University of Nebraska Press: Lincoln, 1992. - The Complete Short Stories. The Finca Vigía ed. Charles Scribner's Sons: New York, 1998. - Death in the Afternoon. Jonathan Cape: London, 1932. - Ernest Hemingway: Selected Letters, 1917-1961. Ed. Carlos Baker. Charles Scribner's Sons: New York, 1981. - A Farewell to Arms. Charles Scribner's Sons: New York, 1929. - Fiesta. Jonathan Cape: London, 1927. - For Whom the Bell Tolls. Charles Scribner's Sons: New York 1940. - The Garden of Eden.

Charles Scribner's Sons: New York, 1986. - Green Hills of Africa. Charles Scribner's Sons: New York 1935. - In Our Time. Boni and Liveright: New York, 1925. - Islands in the Stream. Charles Scribner's Sons: New York, 1970. - A Moveable Feast. Jonathan Cape: London, 1964. - The Nick Adams Stories. Preface by Philip Young. Charles Scribner's Sons: New York, 1972. - The Old Man and the Sea. Charles Scribner's Sons: New York, 1952. - Selected Letters 1917-1961. Ed. Carlos Baker. Panther Books/Granada Publishing: London 1985(1981). - The Snows of Kilimanjaro and other stories, Charles Scribner's Sons: New York, 1961. - The Sun also rises. Charles Scribner's Sons: New York, 1928(1926).

- The Torrents of Spring: A Romantic Novel in Honor of the Passing of a Great Race. Charles Scribner's Sons: New York, 1926. - Three Stories & Ten Poems: Ernest Hemingway's First Book. A facsimile of the original Paris Edition published in 1923. Bruccoli Clark Books: Bloomfield Hills, Michigan, 1977. - True at First Light. Edited with an Introduction by Patrick Hemingway. Arrow Books/Random House: London 1999. - Winner Take Nothing. Charles Scribner's Sons: New York, 1933. Josephs, Allen. For Whom the Bell Tolls: Ernest Hemingway's Undiscovered Country. Twayne: New York, 1994. Lacasse, Rodolphe. Hemingway et Malraux: destins de l'homme. Profils; 6, Montréal 1972. Lynn. Kenneth S. Hemingway. Simon and Schuster: London, 1987. Mandel, Miriam. Reading Hemingway: The Facts in the Fictions.

Scarecrow Press: Metuchen, NJ and London, 1995. Meyers, Jeffrey. Hemingway: A Biography. New York, 1985 (Macmillan: London, 1986 (Harper & Row: New York 1985). Nelson, Gerald B. & Glory Jones. Hemingway: Life and Works. Facts On File Publications: New York, 1984. Palin, Michael. Hemingway's Travels. Weidenfeld & Nicolson: London, 1999. Phillips, Larry W (Ed). Ernest Hemingway on Writing. Grafton Books: London, 1986 (1984). Reynolds, Michael S. Hemingway: an Annotated Chronology: an Outline of the Author's Life and Career Detailing Significant Events, Friendships, Travels, and Achievements. Omni chronology series, 1 Omnigraphics, Inc: Detroit, MI, 1991. Reynolds, Michael S. Hemingway: The Final Years. W.W. Norton: New York 1999.

Reynolds, Michael S. Hemingway: the Homecoming. W.W. Norton: New York, 1999. Reynolds, Michael S. Hemingway: the Paris years. W.W. Norton: New York 1999. Reynolds, Michael S. The Young Hemingway. W.W. Norton: New York, 1998. Reynolds, Michael S. Hemingway's First War: The Making of A Farewell to Arms. Basil Blackwell: New York and Oxford, 1987 (Princeton U.P. 1976). Trogdon, Robert W. (Ed.). Ernest Hemingway: A Documentary Volume. In: Dictionary of Literary Biography (series) Vol. 210. Gale Research Inc.: Detroit, Michigan, 1999. Wagner-Martin, Linda (Ed.). A Historical Guide to Ernest Hemingway. Oxford University Press: New York and Oxford, 2000 The John F.

Kennedy Library in Boston, Massachusetts, has an extensive collection of books and manuscripts, and holds more than 10,000 photos of Ernest Hemingway. Ernest Hemingway died on July 2, 1961. The Snows of Kilimanjaro and Other Stories : Ernest Hemingway : 9780099908807 The Snows of Kilimanjaro and Other Stories Paperback US$5.14 US$13.25 You save US$8.11 Free delivery worldwide Add to basket Add to wishlist Description Men and women of passion and action live, fight, love and die in scenes of dramatic intensity. From haunting tragedy on the snow-capped peak of Kilimanjaro to brutal sensationalism in the bullring; from rural America with its deceptive calm to the heart of war-ravaged Europe, each of the stories in this classic collection is a feat of imagination, and a masterpiece of description. The Snows of Kilimanjaro is one of the best known and loved collections of stories by one of the greatest literary novelists of the twentieth century.

show more Product details 110 x 176 x 14mm | 40.82g Publication date Short Stories Review quote "Stamped with the urgency of Hemingway's style ... revealing tenderness of feeling beneath descriptions of brutality" The Guardian "An excellent story-teller, intense and skilful in planning and bringing off his effects" Daily Telegraph show more About Ernest Hemingway Ernest Miller Hemingway was born in Chicago in 1899 as the son of a doctor and the second of six children. After a stint as an ambulance driver at the Italian front, Hemingway came home to America in 1919, only to return to the battlefield - this time as a reporter on the Greco-Turkish war - in 1922. Resigning from journalism to focus on his writing instead, he moved to Paris where he renewed his earlier friendship with fellow American expatriates such as Ezra Pound and Gertrude Stein. Through the years, Hemingway travelled widely and wrote avidly, becoming an internationally recognized literary master of his craft. He received the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1954, following the publication of The Old Man and the Sea.

He died in 1961. show more Review Text "Stamped with the urgency of Hemingway's style ... revealing tenderness of feeling beneath descriptions of brutality" The Guardian show more Follow us The Snows of Kilimanjaro by Hemingway, First Edition - AbeBooks The Snows of Kilimanjaro by Hemingway, First Edition You Searched For: Results (1 - 13) of 13 Sort By Used Soft cover First Edition Quantity Available: 1 Destination, Rates & Speeds Item Description: Penguin, 1963. Soft cover. Book Condition: Very Good. 1st Edition. First impression of this Penguin paperback edition from 1963 in VG++ condition, light creasing at front cover, no other markings, please see pics, paypal accepted, any questions please get in touch.

Bookseller Inventory # ABE-6916143397586174482 ISBN 10: 0099595648 ISBN 13: 9780099595649 New Soft cover First Edition Quantity Available: 1 More Information About This Seller | Ask Bookseller a Question 2. Stock Image ISBN 10: 090571203X ISBN 13: 9780905712031 Used First Edition Published by London, Heinemann / Octopus, . (1977) Used Hardcover First Edition Destination, Rates & Speeds Item Description: London, Heinemann / Octopus, ., 1977. Thick royal 8vo. or.red/maroon faux-leather binding, gilt lettering. OCTAVO SIZE. HARDCOVER. PAGES: (864pages). Contains six books complete in one volume. FIRST EDITION. Nice fresh copy in like dust jacket, photographic portrait of author on rear panel. #AAA1.

Ernest Hemingway: Omnibus volume containing For Whom the Bell Tolls, The Snows of Kilimanjaro, Fiesta, The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber, Across the River and into the Trees, The Old Man and the Sea. Bookseller Inventory # 24596 The Snows of Kilimanjaro - E. Hemingway The Snows of Kilimanjaro -- Editor's Note: This short story -- written in 1938 -- reflects several of Hemingway's personal concerns during the 1930s regarding his existence as a writer and his life in general. Hemingway remarked in Green Hills that "politics, women, drink, money and ambition" damage American writers. His fear that his own acquaintances with rich people might harm his integrity as a writer becomes evident in this story. The text in italics also reveals Hemingway's fear of leaving his own work of life unfinished. In broader terms, The Snows of Kilimanjaro should be viewed as an example of an author of the "Lost Generation", who experienced the world wars and the war in Spain, which led them to question moral and philosophy.

Hemingway, in particular, found himself in a moral vacuum when he felt alienated from the church, which was closely affiliated with Franco in Spain, and which he felt obliged to distance himself from. As a result, he came up with his own code of human conduct: a mixture of hedonism and sentimental humanism. This text was scanned and edited on Feb. 2, 1998 by Stefan Pollklas Kilimanjaro is a snow-covered mountain 19,710 feet high, and is said to be the highest mountain in Africa. Its western summit is called the Masai "Ngaje Ngai," the House of God. Close to the western summit there is the dried and frozen carcass of a leopard. No one has explained what the leopard was seeking at that altitude. The Snows of Kilimanjaro THE MARVELLOUS THING IS THAT IT�S painless," he said. "That's how you know when it starts." "Is it really?" "Absolutely. I'm awfully sorry about the odor though. That must bother you." "Don't! Please don't." "Look at them," he said.

"Now is it sight or is it scent that brings them like that?" The cot the man lay on was in the wide shade of a mimosa tree and as he looked out past the shade onto the glare of the plain there were three of the big birds squatted obscenely, while in the sky a dozen more sailed, making quick-moving shadows as they passed. "They've been there since the day the truck broke down," he said. "Today's the first time any have lit on the ground. I watched the way they sailed very carefully at first in case I ever wanted to use them in a story. That's funny now.""I wish you wouldn't," she said. "I'm only talking," he said. "It's much easier if I talk. But I don't want to bother you." "You know it doesn't bother me," she said. "It's that I've gotten so very nervous not being able to do anything. I think we might make it as easy as we can until the plane comes." "Or until the plane doesn't come." "Please tell me what I can do. There must be something I can do. "You can take the leg off and that might stop it, though I doubt it. Or you can shoot me.

You're a good shot now. I taught you to shoot, didn't I?" "Please don't talk that way. Couldn't I read to you?" "Read what?" "Anything in the book that we haven't read." "I can't listen to it," he said." Talking is the easiest. We quarrel and that makes the time pass." "I don't quarrel. I never want to quarrel. Let's not quarrel any more. No matter how nervous we get. Maybe they will be back with another truck today. Maybe the plane will come." "I don't want to move," the man said. "There is no sense in moving now except to make it easier for you." "That's cowardly." "Can't you let a man die as comfortably as he can without calling him names? What's the use of clanging me?" "You're not going to die." "Don't be silly. I'm dying now. Ask those bastards." He looked over to where the huge, filthy birds sat, their naked heads sunk in the hunched feathers. A fourth planed down, to run quick-legged and then waddle slowly toward the others. "They are around every camp. You never notice them.

You can't die if you don't give up." "Where did you read that? You're such a bloody fool." "You might think about some one else." "For Christ's sake," he said, "that's been my trade." He lay then and was quiet for a while and looked across the heat shimmer of the plain to the edge of the bush. There were a few Tommies that showed minute and white against the yellow and, far off, he saw a herd of zebra, white against the green of the bush. This was a pleasant camp under big trees against a hill, with good water, and close by, a nearly dry water hole where sand grouse flighted in the mornings. "Wouldn't you like me to read?" she asked. She was sitting on a canvas chair beside his cot. "There's a breeze coming up. "No thanks." "Maybe the truck will come." "I don't give a damn about the truck." "I do." "You give a damn about so many things that I don't." "Not so many, Harry." "It's supposed to be bad for you. It said in Black's to avoid all alcohol. You shouldn't drink." "You shouldn't," she said.

"That's what I mean by giving up. It says it's bad for you. I know it's bad for you." "No," he said. "It's good for me." So now it was all over, he thought. So now he would never have a chance to finish it. So this was the way it ended, in a bickering over a drink. Since the gangrene started in his right leg he had no pain and with the pain the horror had gone and all he felt now was a great tiredness and anger that this was the end of it. For this, that now was coming, he had very little curiosity. For years it had obsessed him; but now it meant nothing in itself. It was strange how easy being tired enough made it. Now he would never write the things that he had saved to write until he knew enough to write them well. Well, he would not have to fail at trying to write them either. Maybe you could never write them, and that was why you put them off and delayed the starting. Well he would never know, now. "I wish we'd never come," the woman said. She was looking at him holding the glass and biting her lip.

"You never would have gotten anything like this in Paris. You always said you loved Paris. We could have stayed in Paris or gone anywhere. I'd have gone anywhere. I said I'd go anywhere you wanted. If you wanted to shoot we could have gone shooting in Hungary and been comfortable." "Your bloody money," he said. "That's not fair," she said. "It was always yours as much as mine. I left everything and I went wherever you wanted to go and I've done what you wanted to do But I wish we'd never come here." "You said you loved it." "I did when you were all right. But now I hate it. I don't see why that had to happen to your leg. What have we done to have that happen to us?" "I suppose what I did was to forget to put iodine on it when I first scratched it. Then I didn't pay any attention to it because I never infect.

Then, later, when it got bad, it was probably using that weak carbolic solution when the other antiseptics ran out that paralyzed the minute blood vessels and started the gangrene." He looked at her, "What else'" "I don't mean that." "If we would have hired a good mechanic instead of a half-baked Kikuyu driver, he would have checked the oil and never burned out that bearing in the truck." "I don't mean that." "If you hadn't left your own people, your goddamned Old Westbury Saratoga, Palm Beach people to take me on " *'Why, I loved you. That's not fair. I love you now. I'll always love you Don't you love me?" "No," said the man. "I don't think so. I never have." "Harry, what are you saying? You're out of your head." "No. I haven't any head to go out of." "Don't drink that," she said. "Darling, please don't drink that. We have to do everything we can." "You do it," he said.

"I'm tired." Now in his mind he saw a railway station at Karagatch and he was standing with his pack and that was the headlight of the Simplon-Offent cutting the dark now and he was leaving Thrace then after the retreat. That was one of the things he had saved to write, with, in the morning at breakfast, looking out the window and seeing snow on the mountains in Bulgaffa and Nansen's Secretary asking the old man if it were snow and the old man looking at it and saying, No, that's not snow. It's too early for snow. And the Secretary repeating to the other girls, No, you see. It's not snow and them all saying, It's not snow we were mistaken. But it was the snow all right and he sent them on into it when he evolved exchange of populations. And it was snow they tramped along in until they died that winter.

It was snow too that fell all Christmas week that year up in the Gauertal, that year they lived in the woodcutter's house with the big square porcelain stove that filled half the room, and they slept on mattresses filled with beech leaves, the time the deserter came with his feet bloody in the snow. He said the police were right behind him and they gave him woolen socks and held the gendarmes talking until the tracks had drifted over. In Schrunz, on Christmas day, the snow was so bright it hurt your eyes when you looked out from the Weinstube and saw every one coming home from church. That was where they walked up the sleigh-smoothed urine-yellowed road along the river with the steep pine hills, skis heavy on the shoulder, and where they ran down the glacier above the Madlenerhaus, the snow as smooth to see as cake frosting and as light as powder and he remembered the noiseless rush the speed made as you dropped down like a bird. They were snow-bound a week in the Madlenerhaus that time in the blizzard playing cards in the smoke by the lantern light and the stakes were higher all the time as Herr Lent lost more.

Finally he lost it all. Everything, the Skischule money and all the season's profit and then his capital. He could see him with his long nose, picking up the cards and then opening, "Sans Voir." There was always gambling then. When there was no snow you gambled and when there was too much you gambled. He thought of all the time in his life he had spent gambling. But he had never written a line of that, nor of that cold, bright Christmas day with the mountains showing across the plain that Barker had flown across the lines to bomb the Austrian officers' leave train, machine-gunning them as they scattered and ran. He remembered Barker afterwards coming into the mess and starting to tell about it. And how quiet it got and then somebody saying, ''You bloody murderous bastard.'' Those were the same Austrians they killed then that he skied with later. No not the same. Hans, that he skied with all that year, had been in the Kaiser Jagers and when they went hunting hares together up the little valley above the saw-mill they had talked of the fighting on Pasubio and of the attack on Perticara and Asalone and he had never written a word of that.

Nor of Monte Corona, nor the Sette Communi, nor of Arsiero. How many winters had he lived in the Vorarlberg and the Arlberg? It was four and then he remembered the man who had the fox to sell when they had walked into Bludenz, that time to buy presents, and the cherry-pit taste of good kirsch, the fast-slipping rush of running powder-snow on crust, singing ''Hi! Ho! said Rolly!' ' as you ran down the last stretch to the steep drop, taking it straight, then running the orchard in three turns and out across the ditch and onto the icy road behind the inn. Knocking your bindings loose, kicking the skis free and leaning them up against the wooden wall of the inn, the lamplight coming from the window, where inside, in the smoky, new-wine smelling warmth, they were playing the accordion. "Where did we stay in Paris?" he asked the woman who was sitting by him in a canvas chair, now, in Africa. "At the Crillon. You know that." "Why do I know that?" "That's where we always stayed." "No.

Not always." "There and at the Pavillion Henri-Quatre in St. Germain. You said you loved it there." "Love is a dunghill," said Harry. "And I'm the cock that gets on it to crow." "If you have to go away," she said, "is it absolutely necessary to kill off everything you leave behind? I mean do you have to take away everything? Do you have to kill your horse, and your wife and burn your saddle and your armour?" "Yes," he said. "Your damned money was my armour. My Sword and my Armour." "Don't." "We'll have one together. Molo, letti dui whiskey-soda!" she called. "You'd better put on your mosquito boots," he told her. "I'll wait till I bathe . . ." While it grew dark they drank and just before it was dark and there was no longer enough light to shoot, a hyena crossed the open on his way around the hill. "That bastard crosses there every night," the man said. "Every night for two weeks." "He's the one makes the noise at night. I don't mind it.

They're a filthy animal though." Drinking together, with no pain now except the discomfort of lying in the one position, the boys lighting a fire, its shadow jumping on the tents, he could feel the return of acquiescence in this life of pleasant surrender. She was very good to him. He had been cruel and unjust in the afternoon. She was a fine woman, marvellous really. And just then it occurred to him that he was going to die. It came with a rush; not as a rush of water nor of wind; but of a sudden, evil-smelling emptiness and the odd thing was that the hyena slipped lightly along the edge of it. "What is it, Harry?" she asked him. "Nothing," he said. "You had better move over to the other side. To windward." "Did Molo change the dressing?" "Yes. I'm just using the boric now." "How do you feel?" "A little wobbly." "I'm going in to bathe," she said. "I'll be right out. I'll eat with you and then we'll put the cot in." So, he said to himself, we did well to stop the quarrelling.

He had never quarrelled much with this woman, while with the women that he loved he had quarrelled so much they had finally, always, with the corrosion of the quarrelling, killed what they had together. He had loved too much, demanded too much, and he wore it all out. He thought about alone in Constantinople that time, having quarrelled in Paris before he had gone out. He had whored the whole time and then, when that was over, and he had failed to kill his loneliness, but only made it worse, he had written her, the first one, the one who left him, a letter telling her how he had never been able to kill it ... How when he thought he saw her outside the Regence one time it made him go all faint and sick inside, and that he would follow a woman who looked like her in some way, along the Boulevard, afraid to see it was not she, afraid to lose the feeling it gave him. How every one he had slept with had only made him miss her more. How what she had done could never matter since he knew he could not cure himself of loving her.

He wrote this letter at the Club, cold sober, and mailed it to New York asking her to write him at the of fice in Paris. That seemed safe. And that night missing her so much it made him feel hollow sick inside, he wandered up past Maxim's, picked a girl up and took her out to supper. He had gone to a place to dance with her afterward, she danced badly, and left her for a hot Armenian slut, that swung her belly against him so it almost scalded. He took her away from a British gunner subaltern after a row. The gunner asked him outside and they fought in the street on the cobbles in the dark. He'd hit him twice, hard, on the side of the jaw and when he didn't go down he knew he was in for a fight. The gunner hit him in the body, then beside his eye. He swung with his left again and landed and the gunner fell on him and grabbed his coat and tore the sleeve off and he clubbed him twice behind the ear and then smashed him with his right as he pushed him away. When the gunner went down his head hit first and he ran with the girl because they heard the M.P.

's coming. They got into a taxi and drove out to Rimmily Hissa along the Bosphorus, and around, and back in the cool night and went to bed and she felt as over-ripe as she looked but smooth, rose-petal, syrupy, smooth-bellied, big-breasted and needed no pillow under her buttocks, and he left her before she was awake looking blousy enough in the first daylight and turned up at the Pera Palace with a black eye, carrying his coat because one sleeve was missing. That same night he left for Anatolia and he remembered, later on that trip, riding all day through fields of the poppies that they raised for opium and how strange it made you feel, finally, and all the distances seemed wrong, to where they had made the attack with the newly arrived Constantine officers, that did not know a god-damned thing, and the artillery had fired into the troops and the British observer had cried like a child. That was the day he'd first seen dead men wearing white ballet skirts and upturned shoes with pompons on them.

The Turks had come steadily and lumpily and he had seen the skirted men running and the of ficers shooting into them and running then themselves and he and the British observer had run too until his lungs ached and his mouth was full of the taste of pennies and they stopped behind some rocks and there were the Turks coming as lumpily as ever. Later he had seen the things that he could never think of and later still he had seen much worse. So when he got back to Paris that time he could not talk about it or stand to have it mentioned. And there in the cafe as he passed was that American poet with a pile of saucers in front of him and a stupid look on his potato face talking about the Dada movement with a Roumanian who said his name was Tristan Tzara, who always wore a monocle and had a headache, and, back at the apartment with his wife that now he loved again, the quarrel all over, the madness all over, glad to be home, the office sent his mail up to the flat.

So then the letter in answer to the one he'd written came in on a platter one morning and when he saw the hand writing he went cold all over and tried to slip the letter underneath another. But his wife said, ''Who is that letter from, dear?'' and that was the end of the beginning of that. He remembered the good times with them all, and the quarrels. They always picked the finest places to have the quarrels. And why had they always quarrelled when he was feeling best? He had never written any of that because, at first, he never wanted to hurt any one and then it seemed as though there was enough to write without it. But he had always thought that he would write it finally. There was so much to write. He had seen the world change; not just the events; although he had seen many of them and had watched the people, but he had seen the subtler change and he could remember how the people were at different times. He had been in it and he had watched it and it was his duty to write of it; but now he never would. "How do you feel?" she said. She had come out from the tent now after her bath.

"All right." "Could you eat now?" He saw Molo behind her with the folding table and the other boy with the dishes. "I want to write," he said. "You ought to take some broth to keep your strength up." "I'm going to die tonight," he said. "I don't need my strength up." "Don't be melodramatic, Harry, please," she said. "Why don't you use your nose? I'm rotted half way up my thigh now. What the hell should I fool with broth for? Molo bring whiskey-soda." "Please take the broth," she said gently. "All right." The broth was too hot. He had to hold it in the cup until it cooled enough to take it and then he just got it down without gagging. "You're a fine woman," he said.

"Don't pay any attention to me." She looked at him with her well-known, well-loved face from Spur and Town & Country, only a little the worse for drink, only a little the worse for bed, but Town & Country never showed those good breasts and those useful thighs and those lightly small-of-back-caressing hands, and as he looked and saw her well-known pleasant smile, he felt death come again. in. This time there was no rush. It was a puff, as of a wind that makes a candle flicker and the flame go tall. "They can bring my net out later and hang it from the tree and build the fire up. I'm not going in the tent tonight. It's not worth moving. It's a clear night. There won't be any rain." So this was how you died, in whispers that you did not hear. Well, there would be no more quarrelling. He could promise that. The one experience that he had never had he was not going to spoil now. He probably would. You spoiled everything. But perhaps he wouldn't. "You can't take dictation, can you?" "I never learned," she told him.

"That's all right." There wasn't time, of course, although it seemed as though it telescoped so that you might put it all into one paragraph if you could get it right. There was a log house, chinked white with mortar, on a hill above the lake. There was a bell on a pole by the door to call the people in to meals. Behind the house were fields and behind the fields was the timber. A line of lombardy poplars ran from the house to the dock. Other poplars ran along the point. A road went up to the hills along the edge of the timber and along that road he picked blackberries. Then that log house was burned down and all the guns that had been on deer foot racks above the open fire place were burned and afterwards their barrels, with the lead melted in the magazines, and the stocks burned away, lay out on the heap of ashes that were used to make lye for the big iron soap kettles, and you asked Grandfather if you could have them to play with, and he said, no. You see they were his guns still and he never bought any others. Nor did he hunt any more.

The house was rebuilt in the same place out of lumber now and painted white and from its porch you saw the poplars and the lake beyond; but there were never any more guns. The barrels of the guns that had hung on the deer feet on the wall of the log house lay out there on the heap of ashes and no one ever touched them. In the Black Forest, after the war, we rented a trout stream and there were two ways to walk to it. One was down the valley from Triberg and around the valley road in the shade of the trees that bordered the white road, and then up a side road that went up through the hills past many small farms, with the big Schwarzwald houses, until that road crossed the stream. That was where our fishing began. The other way was to climb steeply up to the edge of the woods and then go across the top of the hills through the pine woods, and then out to the edge of a meadow and down across this meadow to the bridge. There were birches along the stream and it was not big, but narrow, clear and fast, with pools where it had cut under the roots of the birches. At the Hotel in Triberg the proprietor had a fine season.

It was very pleasant and we were all great friends. The next year came the inflation and the money he had made the year before was not enough to buy supplies to open the hotel and he hanged himself. You could dictate that, but you could not dictate the Place Contrescarpe where the flower sellers dyed their flowers in the street and the dye ran over the paving where the autobus started and the old men and the women, always drunk on wine and bad mare; and the children with their noses running in the cold; the smell of dirty sweat and poverty and drunkenness at the Cafe' des Amateurs and the whores at the Bal Musette they lived above. The concierge who entertained the trooper of the Garde Republicaine in her loge, his horse-hair-plumed helmet on a chair. The locataire across the hall whose husband was a bicycle racer and her joy that morning at the cremerie when she had opened L'Auto and seen where he placed third in Paris-Tours, his first big race. She had blushed and laughed and then gone upstairs crying with the yellow sporting paper in her hand.

The husband of the woman who ran the Bal Musette drove a taxi and when he, Harry, had to take an early plane the husband knocked upon the door to wake him and they each drank a glass of white wine at the zinc of the bar before they started. He knew his neighbors in that quarter then because they all were poor. Around that Place there were two kinds; the drunkards and the sportifs. The drunkards killed their poverty that way; the sportifs took it out in exercise. They were the descendants of the Communards and it was no struggle for them to know their politics. They knew who had shot their fathers, their relatives, their brothers, and their friends when the Versailles troops came in and took the town after the Commune and executed any one they could catch with calloused hands, or who wore a cap, or carried any other sign he was a working man. And in that poverty, and in that quarter across the street from a Boucherie Chevaline and a wine cooperative he had written the start of all he was to do.

There never was another part of Paris that he loved like that, the sprawling trees, the old white plastered houses painted brown below, the long green of the autobus in that round square, the purple flower dye upon the paving, the sudden drop down the hill of the rue Cardinal Lemoine to the River, and the other way the narrow crowded world of the rue Mouffetard. The street that ran up toward the Pantheon and the other that he always took with the bicycle, the only asphalted street in all that quarter, smooth under the tires, with the high narrow houses and the cheap tall hotel where Paul Verlaine had died. There were only two rooms in the apartments where they lived and he had a room on the top floor of that hotel that cost him sixty francs a month where he did his writing, and from it he could see the roofs and chimney pots and all the hills of Paris. From the apartment you could only see the wood and coal man's place. He sold wine too, bad wine. The golden horse's head outside the Boucherie Chevaline where the carcasses hung yellow gold and red in the open window, and the green painted co-operative where they bought their wine; good wine and cheap.

The rest was plaster walls and the windows of the neighbors. The neighbors who, at night, when some one lay drunk in the street, moaning and groaning in that typical French ivresse that you were propaganded to believe did not exist, would open their windows and then the murmur of talk. ''Where is the policeman? When you don't want him the bugger is always there. He's sleeping with some concierge. Get the Agent. " Till some one threw a bucket of water from a window and the moaning stopped. ''What's that? Water. Ah, that's intelligent." And the windows shutting. Marie, his femme de menage, protesting against the eight-hour day saying, ''If a husband works until six he gets only a riffle drunk on the way home and does not waste too much. If he works only until five he is drunk every night and one has no money. It is the wife of the working man who suffers from this shortening of hours. ' "Wouldn't you like some more broth?" the woman asked him now. "No, thank you very much. It is awfully good." "Try just a little." He had just felt death come by again.

"You know the only thing I've never lost is curiosity," he said to her. "You've never lost anything. You're the most complete man I've ever known." "Christ," he said. "How little a woman knows. What is that? Your intuition?" Because, just then, death had come and rested its head on the foot of the cot and he could smell its breath. "Never believe any of that about a scythe and a skull," he told her. "It can be two bicycle policemen as easily, or be a bird. Or it can have a wide snout like a hyena." It had moved up on him now, but it had no shape any more. It simply occupied space. "Tell it to go away." It did not go away but moved a little closer. "You've got a hell of a breath," he told it.

"You stinking bastard." It moved up closer to him still and now he could not speak to it, and when it saw he could not speak it came a little closer, and now he tried to send it away without speaking, but it moved in on him so its weight was all upon his chest, and while it crouched there and he could not move or speak, he heard the woman say, "Bwana is asleep now. Take the cot up very gently and carry it into the tent." He could not speak to tell her to make it go away and it crouched now, heavier, so he could not breathe. And then, while they lifted the cot, suddenly it was all right and the weight went from his chest. It was morning and had been morning for some time and he heard the plane.

It showed very tiny and then made a wide circle and the boys ran out and lit the fires, using kerosene, and piled on grass so there were two big smudges at each end of the level place and the morning breeze blew them toward the camp and the plane circled twice more, low this time, and then glided down and levelled off and landed smoothly and, coming walking toward him, was old Compton in slacks, a tweed jacket and a brown felt hat. "What's the matter, old cock?" Compton said. "Bad leg," he told him. "Will you have some breakfast?" "Thanks. I'll just have some tea. It's the Puss Moth you know. I won't be able to take the Memsahib. There's only room for one. Your lorry is on the way." Helen had taken Compton aside and was speaking to him. Compton came back more cheery than ever. "We'll get you right in," he said. "I'll be back for the Mem. Now I'm afraid I'll have to stop at Arusha to refuel.

We'd better get going." "What about the tea?" "I don't really care about it, you know." The boys had picked up the cot and carried it around the green tents and down along the rock and out onto the plain and along past the smudges that were burning brightly now, the grass all consumed, and the wind fanning the fire, to the little plane. It was difficult getting him in, but once in he lay back in the leather seat, and the leg was stuck straight out to one side of the seat where Compton sat. Compton started the motor and got in. He waved to Helen and to the boys and, as the clatter moved into the old familiar roar, they swung around with Compie watching for warthog holes and roared, bumping, along the stretch between the fires and with the last bump rose and he saw them all standing below, waving, and the camp beside the hill, flattening now, and the plain spreading, clumps of trees, and the bush flattening, while the game trails ran now smoothly to the dry waterholes, and there was a new water that he had never known of.

The zebra, small rounded backs now, and the wildebeeste, big-headed dots seeming to climb as they moved in long fingers across the plain, now scattering as the shadow came toward them, they were tiny now, and the movement had no gallop, and the plain as far as you could see, gray-yellow now and ahead old Compie's tweed back and the brown felt hat. Then they were over the first hills and the wildebeeste were trailing up them, and then they were over mountains with sudden depths of green-rising forest and the solid bamboo slopes, and then the heavy forest again, sculptured into peaks and hollows until they crossed, and hills sloped down and then another plain, hot now, and purple brown, bumpy with heat and Compie looking back to see how he was riding. Then there were other mountains dark ahead. And then instead of going on to Arusha they turned left, he evidently figured that they had the gas, and looking down he saw a pink sifting cloud, moving over the ground, and in the air, like the first snow in at ii blizzard, that comes from nowhere, and he knew the locusts were coming, up from the South.

Then they began to climb and they were going to the East it seemed, and then it darkened and they were in a storm, the rain so thick it seemed like flying through a waterfall, and then they were out and Compie turned his head and grinned and pointed and there, ahead, all he could see, as wide as all the world, great, high, and unbelievably white in the sun, was the square top of Kilimanjaro. And then he knew that there was where he was going. Just then the hyena stopped whimpering in the night and started to make a strange, human, almost crying sound. The woman heard it and, stirred uneasily. She did not wake. In her dream she was at the house on Long Island and it was the night before her daughter's debut. Somehow her father was there and he had been very rude. Then the noise the hyena made was so loud she woke and for a moment she did not know where she was and she was very afraid. Then she took the flashlight and shone it on the other cot that they had carried in after Harry had gone to sleep.

She could see his bulk under the mosquito bar but somehow he had gotten his leg out and it hung down alongside the cot. The dressings had all come down and she could not look at it. "Molo," she called, "Molo! Molo!" Then she said, "Harry, Harry!" Then her voice rising, "Harry! Please. Oh Harry!" There was no answer and she could not hear him breathing. Outside the tent the hyena made the same strange noise that had awakened her. But she did not hear him for the beating of her heart. THE SNOWS OF KILIMANJARO: Amazon.co.uk: Ernest Hemingway: Books THE SNOWS OF KILIMANJARO Currently unavailable. We don't know when or if this item will be back in stock. Customers also viewed these available items Customers Who Viewed This Item Also Viewed Page 1 of 1 Start over Page 1 of 1 This shopping feature will continue to load items. In order to navigate out of this carousel please use your heading shortcut key to navigate to the next or previous heading. Enter your mobile number or email address below and we'll send you a link to download the free Kindle App.

Then you can start reading Kindle books on your smartphone, tablet, or computer - no Kindle device required. Apple To get the free app, enter your mobile phone number. or Don't have a Kindle? Get your Kindle here , or download a FREE Kindle Reading App . Product details By A Customer on 15 Oct. 1997 Format: Paperback "The Snows of Kilimanjaro" contains some of Hemingway's finer short stories. And like many of his works, they resemble his life. Everything from his childhood to his later years in Africa are material for these tales. The stories of Hemingway's recurrent character, Nick Adams, who some say is Hemingway himself, are contained in this book also. All the works bear his distinct imprint, even though many are under ten pages in length. "The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber" is what I consider Hemingway's most potent short story of all. This collection is a great primer for those who are unacquainted with Hemingway's work and wish to discover his talent.

The Snows Of Kilimanjaro: Short Story - Ernest Hemingway - Google Books The Snows Of Kilimanjaro: Short Story 0 Reviews Dying slowly of an infected wound while on safari in Africa, Harry reflects on his privileged and decadent life, and confronts his failure of realize his potential as a writer. “The Snows of Kilimanjaro” is recognized as one of Ernest Hemingway’s greatest works, and inspired the film adaptation starring Gregory Peck and Ava Gardner. One of America’s foremost journalists and authors, Ernest Hemingway as also a master of the short story genre, penning more than fifty short stories during his career, many of which featured one of his most popular prose characters, Nick Adams. The most popular of Hemingway’s short stories include “Hills Like White Elephants,” “Indian Camp,” “The Big Two-Hearted River,” and “The Snows of Kilimanjaro.” HarperCollins brings great works of literature to life in digital format, upholding the highest standards in ebook production and celebrating reading in all its forms. Look for more titles in the HarperCollins short-stories collection to build your digital library.

The Snows of Kilimanjaro Essay - The Snows of Kilimanjaro, Ernest Hemingway - eNotes.com The Snows of Kilimanjaro, Ernest Hemingway link Link "The Snows of Kilimanjaro" Hemingway, Ernest The following entry presents criticism of Hemingway's short story "The Snows of Kilimanjaro." See also, The Old Man and the Sea Criticism, "A Clean, Well-Lighted Place" Criticism, and Ernest Hemingway Criticism. One of the best-known writers of the twentieth century, Hemingway played a crucial role in the development of modern fiction. In his renowned short stories, including "The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber" and "The Snows of Kilimanjaro," he drew from his own experiences to create fiction that was praised as direct, immediate, and powerful. Hemingway consciously adopted the central Modernist tenet that form expresses content, and he strove to imitate the rhythms of life in his fiction, augmenting meaning through repetition, counterpoint, and juxtaposition.

"The Snows of Kilimanjaro" offers numerous examples of this literary style, with collage-type effects employed to convey the protagonist's vivid memories of his childhood and youth. Plot and Major Characters The epigraph to "The Snows of Kilimanjaro" describes the frozen carcass of a leopard preserved near the icy summit of Mount Kilimanjaro, the highest peak in Africa. This image stands in startling contrast to the opening details of Hemingway's story. Stranded on the hot African plain, within sight of the snow-capped mountain, the protagonist, Harry, suffers from a gangrenous leg wound. He is accompanied by his wealthy lover, Helen, on whom he is financially dependent. As they await rescue by plane, Harry bitterly reflects on his once-promising writing career. He realizes that he has sacrificed his talent for the material pleasures offered by Helen. Filled with rage and self-disgust, Harry responds with sarcasm to Helen's thoughtful ministrations. The couple fruitlessly bicker, and as they argue he has a premonition of his own death.

He wistfully recalls his life, packed with experiences he once planned to translate into art: the purity of skiing in the Austrian alps; the torment of first love; the charm and absurdity of bohemian Paris; the stark beauty of his grandfather's farm in Michigan; and the horror of trench warfare during World War I. As night falls and a hyena flits past the camp, Harry once again senses the approach of death. He feels a sudden sensation of weight on his chest, but as he is carried to his tent his discomfort is abruptly relieved. The following morning the rescue plane arrives and Harry is airlifted to apparent safety. However, as the plane rises into the clouds, he suddenly realizes that he is headed not for the hospital but for the blindingly white summit of Kilimanjaro. At this moment, the story abruptly cuts to the sound of Helen's sobs as she discovers Harry's corpse and we realize that the "plane trip" was, in fact, the final flight of Harry's imagination. Major Themes "The Snows of Kilimanjaro" reveals the preoccupation with mortality common to much of Hemingway's fiction.

As in his novel The Sun Also Rises, a significant distinction is drawn between spiritual and physical death. By compromising his literary talent, Harry has already embraced a kind of death-in-life. The corruption spreading from his gangrenous leg simply makes manifest his moral decay, an irony of which he is painfully aware. Elsewhere in the Hemingway canon the theme of death is examined with an almost journalistic realism. "The Snows of Kilimanjaro" presents a fascinating exception to this rule by making use of a group of recurrent symbols. The figures of the frozen leopard and scavenging hyena contrast two attitudes to death: while the leopard's preserved corpse suggests the possibility of permanence through fame, the hyena signifies the inevitability of death. Kilimanjaro itself offers a powerfully multifaeeted symbol. Its dazzling heights provoke a wealth of associations from Chaucer's House of Fame to Shelley's Mont Blanc.

Most importantly, however, the mountain represents the mystery of death, a mystery underlined by the double closure of "The Snows of Kilimanjaro." Critical Reception Hailed by critics as one of Hemingway's greatest short stories, "The Snows of Kilimanjaro" has garnered a wealth of interpretations in the past half-century. In general, discussion has focused on two related issues: the significance of the epigraph and the meaning of Harry's final death-flight. While some commentators have found parallels to the frozen leopard in Dante and in biblical passages, others have viewed the frozen leopard as an uncomplicated symbol of heroic perseverance. It also has been asserted that the association of the leopard with idealistic aspiration reinforces the story's rejection of material pleasures. However the reader views the leopard, the question of Harry's success or failure remains. Most critics have perceived the final scene as a moral triumph, as the protagonist Harry rises above a lifetime of failure in his final moments, imaginatively matching the leopard's achievement. Others have rejected this view, arguing that Harry miserably fails to redeem himself. Additional critical studies have examined the story's autobiographical elements and misogynist qualities, as well as identifying the possible influences on Hemingway's work.

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Question: A book by Ernest Hemingway is "The Snows of " where?
Answer: Kilimanjaro