Ah, Hemingway! How divine and irritating you are in equal measure! His beguiling prose leads you into a sort of mesmerised state of being, so you can miss his themes in amongst the endless descriptions of mealtimes and bedtime rituals. Those rituals do become fascinating, and they do take up much of our lives, so why not, you may say, include them in a memoir, even a 'fictional' one? Diversionary tactics from the bearded one, nevertheless, I tend to think. Hemingway's pursuit of game seems to be a transference of repressed aggression from the humans around him to the poor beasts. He's in a menage a trois with his European lady companion and a more earthy native girl, and the tensions that arise need to be released somehow. His European squeeze, Mary, spends the trip trying to bag her lion, and whilst she certainly gets a piece of it, the kill isn't entirely satisfactory. Similarly, she finds it impossible to bag the old man and the piece ends rather abruptly with nothing settled - I think the book was unfinished? But then I guess that's how life is. Hemingway fans will love it, but non-devotees won't be converted.