- Gebundene Ausgabe: 208 Seiten
- Verlag: Scribner; Auflage: Reprint (15. April 1998)
- Sprache: Englisch
- ISBN-10: 068484463X
- ISBN-13: 978-0684844633
- Größe und/oder Gewicht: 15,5 x 2 x 23,5 cm
- Durchschnittliche Kundenbewertung: 20 Kundenrezensionen
- Amazon Bestseller-Rang: Nr. 743.946 in Fremdsprachige Bücher (Siehe Top 100 in Fremdsprachige Bücher)
Green Hills of Africa (Scribner Classics) (Englisch) Gebundene Ausgabe – Special Edition, 1. April 1998
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Über den Autor und weitere Mitwirkende
Ernest Hemingway did more to influence the style of English prose than any other writer of his time. Publication of The Sun Also Rises and A Farewell to Arms immediately established him as one of the greatest literary lights of the 20th century. His classic novella The Old Man and the Sea won the Pulitzer Prize in 1953. Hemingway was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1954. He died in 1961.
Leseprobe. Abdruck erfolgt mit freundlicher Genehmigung der Rechteinhaber. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.
We were sitting in the blind that Wanderobo hunters had built of twigs and branches at the edge of the salt-lick when we heard the truck coming. At first it was far away and no one could tell what the noise was. Then it was stopped and we hoped it had been nothing or perhaps only the wind. Then it moved slowly nearer, unmistakable now, louder and louder until, agonizing in a clank of loud irregular explosions, it passed close behind us to go on up the road. The theatrical one of the two trackers stood up.
"It is finished," he said.
I put my hand to my mouth and motioned him down.
"It is finished," he said again and spread his arms wide. I had never liked him and I liked him less now.
"After," I whispered. M'Cola shook his head. I looked at his bald black skull and he turned his face a little so that I saw the thin Chinese hairs at the corners of his mouth.
"No good," he said. "Hapana m'uzuri."
"Wait a little," I told him. He bent his head down again so that it would not show above the dead branches and we sat there in the dust of the hole until it was too dark to see the front sight on my rifle; but nothing more came. The theatrical tracker was impatient and restless. A little before the last of the light was gone he whispered to M'Cola that it was now too dark to shoot.
"Shut up, you," M'Cola told him. "The Bwana can shoot after you cannot see."
The other tracker, the educated one, gave another demonstration of his education by scratching his name, Abdullah, on the black skin of his leg with a sharp twig. I watched without admiration and M'Cola looked at the word without a shadow of expression on his face. After a while the tracker scratched it out.
Finally I made a last sight against what was left of the light and saw it was no use, even with the large aperture.
M'Cola was watching.
"No good," I said.
"Yes," he agreed, in Swahili. "Go to camp?"
We stood up and made our way out of the blind and out through the trees, walking on the sandy loam, feeling our way between trees and under branches, back to the road. A mile along the road was the car. As we came alongside, Kamau, the driver, put the lights on.
The truck had spoiled it. That afternoon we had left the car up the road and approached the salt-lick very carefully. There had been a little rain, the day before, though not enough to flood the lick, which was simply an opening in the trees with a patch of earth worn into deep circles and grooved at the edges with hollows where the animals had licked the dirt for salt, and we had seen long, heart-shaped, fresh tracks of four greater kudu bulls that had been on the salt the night before, as well as many newly pressed tracks of lesser kudu. There was also a rhino who, from the tracks and the kicked-up mound of strawy dung, came there each night. The blind had been built at close arrow-shot of the lick and sitting, leaning back, knees high, heads low, in a hollow half full of ashes and dust, watching through the dried leaves and thin branches I had seen a lesser kudu bull come out of the brush to the edge of the opening where the salt was and stand there, heavy-necked, gray, and handsome, the horns spiralled against the sun while I sighted on his chest and then refused the shot, wanting not to frighten the greater kudu that should surely come at dusk. But before we ever heard the truck the bull had heard it and run off into the trees and everything else that had been moving, in the bush on the flats, or coming down from the small hills through the trees, coming toward the salt, had halted at that exploding, clanking sound. They would come, later, in the dark; but then it would be too late.
So now, going along the sandy track of the road in the car, the lights picking out the eyes of night birds that squatted close on the sand until the bulk of the car was on them and they rose in soft panic; passing the fires of the travellers that all moved to the westward by day along this road, abandoning the famine country that was ahead of us; me sitting, the butt of my rifle on my foot, the barrel in the crook of my left arm, a flask of whiskey between my knees, pouring the whiskey into a tin cup and passing it over my shoulder in the dark for M'Cola to pour water into it from the canteen, drinking this, the first one of the day, the finest one there is, and looking at the thick bush we passed in the dark, feeling the cool wind of the night and smelling the good smell of Africa, I was altogether happy.
Then ahead we saw a big fire and as we came up and passed, I made out a truck beside the road. I told Kamau to stop and go back and as we backed into the firelight there was a short, bandy-legged man with a Tyroler hat, leather shorts, and an open shirt standing before an un-hooded engine in a crowd of natives.
"Can we help?" I asked him.
"No," he said. "Unless you are a mechanic. It has taken a dislike to me. All engines dislike me."
"Do you think it could be the timer? It sounded as though it might be a timing knock when you went past us."
"I think it is much worse than that. It sounds to be something very bad."
"If you can get to our camp we have a mechanic."
"How far is it?"
"About twenty miles."
"In the morning I will try it. Now I am afraid to make it go farther with that noise of death inside. It is trying to die because it dislikes me. Well, I dislike it too. But if I die it would not annoy it."
"Will you have a drink?" I held out the flask. "Hemingway is my name."
"Kandisky," he said and bowed. "Hemingway is a name I have heard. Where? Where have I heard it? Oh, yes. The Dichter. You know Hemingway the poet?"
"Where did you read him?"
"In the Querschnitt."
"That is me," I said, very pleased. The Querschnitt was a German magazine I had written some rather obscene poems for, and published a long story in, years before I could sell anything in America.
"This is very strange," the man in the Tyroler hat said. "Tell me, what do you think of Ringelnatz?"
"He is splendid."
"So. You like Ringelnatz. Good. What do you think of Heinrich Mann?"
"He is no good."
"You believe it?"
"All I know is that I cannot read him."
"He is no good at all. I see we have things in common. What are you doing here?"
"Not ivory, I hope."
"No. For kudu."
"Why should any man shoot a kudu? You, an intelligent man, a poet, to shoot kudu."
"I haven't shot any yet," I said. "But we've been hunting them hard now for ten days. We would have got one tonight if it hadn't been for your lorry."
"That poor lorry. But you should hunt for a year. At the end of that time you have shot everything and you are sorry for it. To hunt for one special animal is nonsense. Why do you do it?"
"I like to do it."
"Of course, if you like to do it. Tell me, what do you really think of Rilke?"
"I have read only the one thing."
"You liked it?"
"I have no patience with it. It is snobbery. Valéry, yes. I see the point of Valéry; although there is much snobbery too. Well at least you do not kill elephants."
"I'd kill a big enough one."
"A seventy pounder. Maybe smaller."
"I see there are things we do not agree on. But it is a pleasure to meet one of the great old Querschnitt group. Tell me what is Joyce like? I have not the money to buy it. Sinclair Lewis is nothing. I bought it. No. No. Tell me tomorrow. You do not mind if I am camped near? You are with friends? You have a white hunter?"
"With my wife. We would be delighted. Yes, a white hunter."
"Why is he not out with you?"
"He believes you should hunt kudu...
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Höchst unbefriedigend ist es für den Macho, als seine Frau auch mal schießen darf - und mit einem einzigen guten Schuss den Löwen tötet. Wo ist denn da der Todeskampf?! Abends dann Whisky (wegen der Malaria) und Männersprüche - Afrika ist doch ein schönes Land.
Ausgesprochene Tierfreunde sollten dieses Buch nicht lesen - sie werden Hemingway hassen, auch wenn er nur die Realität der damaligen Zeit aufgeschrieben hat. Natürlich schrieb Hemingway aus einem anderen Zeitgeist heraus, Heldentaten waren gefragt, die Kolonialzeit, die nach dem Motto 'survival of the fittest' wie selbstverständlich die funktionierenden Kulturen der Ureinwohner zerstörte, in Afrika gerade auf einem Höhepunkt. Im Nachvollziehen dieser Gedankengänge und Lebenseinstellung sehe ich auch den einzigen Nutzen dieses Buches. Doch im Gegensatz zu anderen Großwildjägern (z.B. James Patterson, "The Man-Eaters of Tsavo") hat man bei Hemingway das Gefühl, dass er es übertreibt.
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