Out of Place

Memo to myself: next time you read a book to get a sense of a place you're about to visit, don't, don't, don't see the film too.

Confused by Karen

I read Karen Blixen's memoirs, Out of Africa, in July.  Henry and I saw the film (Meryl Streep and Robert Redford) in October.  We visited the farm at the foot of Kenya's Ngong Hills, where Blixen had lived and loved, last Tuesday.  Big mistake.

Our guide, Winnie, gushed as she pointed out the writing desk where Blixen wrote her admirable life-story of  East African anthropology and Colonial farming practice.  But she'd may as well not have bothered.  All I could see was the dining table where Streep had that dinner a deux with Redford, the fireside where they had that blazing row, the verandah where she whistfully awaited the return of her renegade lover.  You can guess what images the mosquito net draped over the double bed conjured up.

Poor Karen Blixen.  She may have had a farm in Africa, but she wrote herself out of the deeds when Universal Pictures moved in.

John