Notes on Hemingway's 'The Snows of Kilimanjaro'

Hi guys,

here's a link to some notes which I found interesting on the book (short story, really) we read for reading group. They're not incredible, but food for thought.

Thanks

http://www.cliffsnotes.com/WileyCDA/LitNote/Hemingway-s-Short-Stories-Summaries-and-Commentaries-The-Snows-of-Kilimanjaro-.id-10,pageNum-57.html

Editorial by Billiam Tantam

Editorial

 

            This is the second magazine of ‘Sketches’ to have been brought out, and I think that it has come a long way from the first.   For one thing, it should have a bigger readership (cross fingers!), and for another, there have been more submissions, which means a more varied read.

 

            With regards to creative writing at SOAS, there has been more interest, though is still limited in numbers.  There seems to have been a lot of attention given to a certain academic within our institution running for the Laureateship – and to him we say good luck!  I’m sure he’d do a darn sight better job than that joker Andrew Motion.  Literary Society has grown a little, and the Reading Group has started up in earnest. Literature, it seems, has been denigrated to the lower rungs of our entertainment preferences, a fact that I do not think is fair, but can understand.  Recently, the introduction of Guitar Hero into our house has meant that my endeavours to become a Guitar expert have relegated the Musils, Orwells, Greenes, and Ginsbergs to mere footstools. However, occasionally a piece of writing will grab you and remind you of how much more fulfilling the act of reading actually is. 

 

            Over the Christmas Holidays I was caught up in the delights of the flesh; good food, fine bed-linen, a doting girlfriend, and left my books to sit idly by, but as January 3^rd approached, I happened upon a poem that made the hands on my watch stop dead, leaving only my breathing to count the restful minutes.  The poem that brought me to such a crescendo of epiphany was Pablo Neruda’s Walking Around, a poem whose frank portrayal of a man beset by insecurities resonated like harmonics in a guitar body within my mind.  Lines of immense beauty are scattered by the poet in abundance; “It happens that I am tired of being a man” … “I do not want to go on being a root in the dark // hesitating, stretched out, shivering with dreams”, lines of such timeless resonance that they weigh on us like a marble weight.  Anyway, I divulge from our little pamphlet.

 

            Once again being overtaken by the excitement of literature that feels relevant to our own lives, I’m excited about this magazine beginning to take flight on its own, and hope that the fact all of the submitters are SOAS students will mean that we can in some way connect better with the sentiment to their pieces.  Perhaps I’m getting away with myself – use it to stop your coffee cup from staining the table whilst you’re playing Guitar Hero, but maybe afterwards, when the evening chill comes through the window, have a quick leaf through, and think on beauty.

 

Thanks for your donation!

 

Billiam

Short Story by Mathilde Nielsen-Earle

A Dreamless Sleep

 

It was that time of day when the heat starts to unwind its taut grip on the world and everything can breathe again. This was more of a time to reawaken than a time to fall asleep, but David sank into a deep and dreamless sleep. If he hadn’t journeyed so deep into unconsciousness, if he’d settled a little closer to reality, some of the dreams David might have dreamt are as follows.

He stands in a well that is so deep that when he looks up he can see the stars even though it is the middle of the afternoon. The water reaches his waist, and though he wears no trousers or underwear his feet are clad in a pair of heavy, waterlogged boots. Down in the well with him is a crowd that includes his mother, sister and younger brother, his old Latin teacher and several workmates. They are arguing about the colour of the apple tree that grew in their garden as children, and David is trying to make himself heard, to draw to their attention that the important question isn’t what colour it was, but whether it felt more like velvet or pineapples.

In another the air is full of paper planes, flying in every direction, but somehow, almost as if space itself were bending around him, not hitting him. In this dream there’s nobody David would be able to identify in his real life, but he is vaguely familiar with each and every one of them. They seem oblivious to the paper planes. Light flashes off of some of the planes as if they were made of polished glass. Others, though a pure white, seem to absorb the light around them. Some appear to be two dimensional, as if they were drawn on flat brittle sheets and not folded. The paper planes, although pervasive and present throughout the greater part of the dream, are secondary features in it, but if David had indeed dreamt this dream, he would have woken remembering little else about it.

In a third the whole thing starts with a pencil being dropped. It ends with the same pencil being dropped in almost exactly the same circumstances, the only difference being that this time it happens after a long and complicated set of events which would make little sense in reality but in the dream seems a logical progression of cause and effect.

There are other dreams that David might have dreamt*, but these are the ones I have chosen to show you. Perhaps they aren’t the most valuable, they don’t necessarily give as clear a picture of his mental state as others might have, and certainly give us no factual information as to why he is in this state.

At the point in time that he did not dream these dreams, David felt swept away by the events in his life. He was not discontented. He had merely had an experience, or, rather, an encounter, that had sent him spinning off centre and made him feel unfamiliar with his every day life.

David was not one for sudden revelations, but something had taken hold of him that he was not prepared for. My experience of David, although relatively limited, has been largely of a person that is steady and reliable, yet even the most dependable characters have the potential to fall prey to an indescribable, elusive weakness that can consume both mind and body. The weakness is this: Love.

David was not in love; he had merely been teased with the potential of it. The object of his desire was the sister of one of his workmates, and the occasion that marked its start was her appearance one morning, on the morning of the day that he did not dream, at the worksite.

What brought her there that morning was to bring her brother Marco his lunch, which he had left on the kitchen table when he left the house early before dawn. This was, of course, not the first time David had met Marco’s sister. Having formed a bond with Marco based on their being the only two “educated”* labourers on the site and planning on this being a temporary situation, David had had dinner at Marco’s family home several times.

At a later date, on one of the occasions that Marco brought him out drinking with us, David, drunk and loose tongued, confessed to me that he had not paid much attention to her at these meals. She had not been particularly welcoming. She had been quiet and cool, watching them from behind calm eyes.

At the worksite, David was surprised to witness, her manner became more relaxed and open. She seemed less defensive, and she teased her brother and herself and even made quick, clever replies to some of the labourers’ lewd remarks. He noticed the curve of her calves and the line of her neck. She wore a light summer dress and her dark hair was up. She had a mole on her left cheek, a dark, soft brown.

Before she left, Marco’s sister turned her attention to David and they exchanged a few words. David couldn’t recall what they spoke of, perhaps the recent heat wave, or what they would be eating that night, but nonetheless he was left with a deep impression. He felt singled out from his colleagues, acknowledged as different, as more sophisticated and complex. During their conversation he felt, for the first time, his heartbeat strengthen at the thought of her, but it was not until she left and he allowed himself a glance at her retreating body that the full impact of their encounter hit him, and did it not leave him until he fell into bed that afternoon.

The reaction was so violent that it almost bypassed his mind and went straight to his body. It was as if it was working through his spine rather than his brain. Because of this, what he felt of the emotion in his mind was eclipsed by the awareness he had of the physical reaction that he was being subjected to. The experience was not unlike drinking too much coffee. He was hot and unpleasantly sweaty. His heart pounded uncontrollably.

This racing pulse was the main cause of his exhaustion at the end of the day. The heat wave meant the physical work was particularly gruelling, but with his pulse the way it was every movement took tenfold the energy it would have done otherwise. He could feel the rhythmic pulsating in his neck and face, and at several points he was seized by the fear that something vital would rupture, sending a cataclysmic blush raging over his skin.

All too awake to the unwelcome effect she was inflicting upon his body, David tried to suppress the thought of Marco’s sister, but even when he succeeded the thrill and the growing dread caused by the idea of being able to experience such forceful emotions intensified his symptoms.

David excused himself when work finished as they reached the hottest part of the day, feeling unable to share a meal with his co-workers without behaving noticeably odd. He roamed the streets aimlessly, having forgotten that he meant to find a café to eat in until the hunger pains cut through the churning of his stomach. He ate enough for two men, and then went home.

 

When he woke up the room was cooler. It took a few moments for Marco’s sister to return to him, and with her came the fear and anticipation of seeing her that evening at Marco’s family home. He washed and dressed and left the house.

The evening was beautiful. When he left it was twilight and the light gave the streets a blue tinge. The trees rustled in the cooling air. By the time he reached Marco’s street night had fallen. The houses on this road were bigger than his own, the gardens well tended and fragrant.

David entered the wrought iron gate and lingered for a moment, before he took the last few steps towards the door to knock, so that he could gather his composure. Before he had the chance to approach the door he saw a figure wander out from the doorway. It was Marco’s sister. She wore the same light, summer dress, but her hair was down. The waves fell past her shoulders and in the garden she seemed younger and freer still than she had that afternoon. She paused at a bush and reached her hand out to touch the foliage.

“Hello,” he said.

She started slightly, her eyes not yet accustomed to the dark.

“Oh. Hello, David,” she said, a smile forming on her lips. She inclined her head slightly towards him.

In that moment, as his heart continued to pound in his chest, David felt the inevitability that, whatever this was, it would not last. It would begin, exist, and then end. He saw no point in resistance, as the end result would be the same. Now this had started he could lose it now, or lose it later.

 

---

* Some would argue that the possibilities are endless. In a conversation during my student days, a fellow scholar vehemently defended the notion that it is possible for a baby to imagine anything (and, in theory, everything) that has happened, will happen or could happen extrapolated from the first few seconds of his or her existence. Personally, I am not a fan of these theories. I would be more then happy to accept that the dreams David did not dream that day would easily fill the vacuous space that the library of the British Museum once occupied, but maintain that the possibilities are finite. I am in no way denying an infinite universe, and feel compelled to quote from Borges’ analogy: “The library is limitless and periodic.”

* David was not in fact educated, but was a low-level pen pusher between jobs.

Photo by Hazwan J

Short Story by James Wilson

Last Days of Sun

 

He was awakened by the late morning sunlight entering his bedroom window, warming his face, lighting his eyelids. When he opened his tired eyes, his little flat shone pink, dyed by his stirring membranes in an unwelcome reveille. He took a hot shower and shaved. He dressed in the clothes he had laid out the night before. The shirt was crisp and fresh. His jacket was new and smelled lightly of tobacco. He splashed cologne onto his face, staring into the mirror at the deep lines that cut into his skin, the contours of his expression spongy and round and disappointing. Gathering up his wallet and keys, the last thing he did before he left was open the cupboard and take out the white leather bag that lay inside next to the burnt metal bin, still smoking. He left and locked the door.

            The day was unripe, and a vagrant wind cooled his neck, hot from the sun shining down. Walking down the street, he stared into the faces of passers by, going about their business. He usually averted his gaze to the ground, slouched over and walked quickly, but today was different. He searched their faces, speculating about their lives and deaths, virtues and sins, and all the while taking large strides, swinging his white leather bag, shining in the sun. He reached the bank, withdrew the last of his funds and folded them in his pocket. He would have a good breakfast today. Further on down and across the road was the nice café, a place where he wanted to eat for a while. Little wooden tables stood outside the glass doors under canvas parasols. Students drank coffee and ate. Smoking was not permitted, even outside. In any case, the wind was a bit too fresh to enjoy this long awaited breakfast, so he went through the glass doors.

He sat down at a table in front of a fern and a fish tank. There was a young female student sitting adjacent to him, reading an old novel. He picked up the gilded menu and ordered the morning deluxe, and a coke. The coke and accompanying croissant arrived and he glanced over at the girl while squeezing the pale lemon juice into the caramel fizz. She was wearing thick framed glasses, and had her hair tied back loosely, occasionally brushing away loose strands of toasted black tint from her eyes. Looking at this young lady refreshed him and he somewhat forgot about his order. He looked at his watch. 10:57. He decided to order a beer in the meantime. Why not? Ten minutes later, his meal arrived, sausages, eggs, toast, black and white pudding, soda and potato bread, not to mention several crisps of bacon stacked up thick. He buttered his croissant and sipped his beer. He felt like a coffee was appropriate but he hated the stuff. As he ate he kept looking at the young student across from him until she eventually stood up and paid her bill. Now full, he followed, leaving several notes too many on the dish. The waitress stared after him as he walked out the door.

            The sun appeared from behind a cloud, greeting him as he left the café. He looked at his watch. 11:28. Turning left, past a row of empty restaurants he saw the wide blue horizon peeking out from an ancient alley, with nothing therein but an upturned rusty pail and a sleepy little cat returning back from a journey towards him. He went down. The lane led down to the sea, early blue and still. The summer festival decorations were falling down; before multicoloured banners adorned the old navy lampposts from one end of the tiny marina to the other. Beneath their shadows the boats rocked gently at the sinking pontoons, protected by the great sea wall, hard and grey and battered. In the shallower parts the water greened and as he looked through the clear surface he could see sunken glass bottles on a bed of tiny shells, broken and still. He followed the coastal path to its conclusion, the beginning of the park, not before turning back to face the sea again, and running his tired eye over the old war shelter built upon the brown rocks. Hopping over the iron fence, he laid a leather notebook at the foot of the building, and covered it with shells. It was 12:45.

Walking on through the aged trees through the entrance of the park he watched the leaves fall and scatter around him. They cleared, and he came to the pond. There was a lady in a business suit eating a sandwich on the bench. He sat down beside her, with his white bag on his lap. She looked a little unnerved and he felt her stiffen as he sat down. He sighed. The cool clouds sailed overhead, darkening patches on the pond outstretched before the two seated figures. The shadows moved across the surface of the water quickly, leaving a trail of shimmering flashes in their wake.

“Wonderful day, isn’t it?”

“Oh yes.” she answered quickly. There was a silence, and then she wrapped up her sandwich and left. That’s the way it is, he thought. His watch read 1:14. He really must press on.

The park led to a leafy walk to the school building, a few hundred yards; where he looked into gardens at empty houses, their residents all at work save for an old woman asleep in a lounge chair on her lawn. The houses gave way to the playing fields and the playground. He stopped and stared through the wire mesh. The miniature forms danced like yellow leaves under the high sun, now descending. The great square yellow building sat over them, proud and graceful. He saw his sailing clouds departing across the tops of the trees, without any trace or exhaust, leaving only a ripened blue sky. There wouldn’t be many more days like these. On that thought he began to sweat, and his throat tightened, like a taut rope wrenching his stomach upwards to be hoisted out of his mouth. He wiped the moisture off and stared up at the sun looking down at him, illuminating his form against the yellow clay bricks of the school, his shadow ever lengthening. He paused. Snapping his face towards the ground, he inhaled until his chest hurt, spat and coughed and gripped the wire fence, leaving red imprints on his palms until he made his decision, opened his eyes, jerked his neck up, exhaled deep and long and felt a flourish of serenity pass over him, like the clouds he saw on the water. Time to go.

Opening the double doors up the steps, down and down the empty corridor he walked, quickly, past the translucent half-windows containing flashing giggles between walls full of splashed paint on cream paper, glued shapes and scrawled names, fingerprints and faces, digits and glyphs that streamed past his head as he started to run, feeling their presence behind door after door until he reached the number he desired.

He pushed the door aside, and stepped in, not even hearing the noise or the blurry clambering forms in front of him while he clasped the strap around his shoulder. And as he opened the white bag and revealed its contents to the assembled class, the sun swept across the window pane, filling the room with a hot white radiance, causing the metal barrel in his hands to sparkle brightly, lighting up their smiling faces.

2 poems by Elest Ali

In the banal drudgery of never green enough

In the banal drudgery of never green enough,

Time falters and slips up to reveal

Those things which lurk in my blind spot.

There, hunched like an angel of misfortune against its scythe,

Life’s titan reserve terrifies me

And I am sorry that I was not

Enough to cherish what is escaping us now.

 

Welcome, Friend.

I’ve filled my heart again,

And You have come to empty it out.

The cycle will dip, drag on begrudgingly, pick up momentum, and eventually resume.

Like a second chance at lost childhood. One more time. And one more time.

And though they are numbered, I let them take my breath away.

Because the sea is imitating the sky tonight;

Because the hand which rested on my head

Could not have been more necessary;

And because that boyish cartwheel in our dash across the field,

Was the only thing missing from this evanescent perfection.

 

 This world is ugly but so full of Your beautiful things.

And I know that You love its stumbling people for their flaws and for their yearning,

And I know You love us, because You have let us taste this and be humbled

And I know You love me, because You take back now what you had shared

Because this brittle vessel is not big enough,

And overwhelmed, my heart has come so near to breaking.

Thank You.

Breath of Conclusion

Breath of conclusion blows through the autumn leaves.

Like them I hang my weary head in sad resignation.

Yet no wind to claim me, this year’s ending.

None to extinguish a spark willing to find meaning in its light,

when it leaves only darkness behind.

They whisper through me, ‘Open your eyes, little one. It is never finished.

Not yet. Not like this.’

And if these stones, these trees could talk,

They’d say that every man dies, yet not completely.

Traces of his absence forever linger for what resumes to mourn

…and pock marked with the loss of endless souls:

that is why this world is so sad.

And if these stones, these trees could talk,

They’d say that every man lives, yet not completely.

Traces of absence forever linger for an enduring humanity to mourn

…and pock marked with an endless loss of innocence:

that is why this world is so sad.

 

2006