It’s 1939 I’m staring from the top of a mountain in a country unknown, at the smooth downhill expanse of its slope. Around me are similar mountains, the peaks of which are concealed by wisps of condensed water. Like my mountain, the rest of the mountain range is covered in snow. I am with my dad, we are both wearing wooden skis, and we are both about to ski down this vast almost vertical slope. When we do, ski downwards in a straight line steadily gaining momentum as we continue our descent. Some way down the slope, the inevitable, happens. We collide with the icy surface and proceed the rest of the way, rolling. When we reach the bottom we are not hurt, instead we are shaken and laughing. Later we casually speak about it food and hot drink in the mountain side rest stop. As I finished my book The Snows of Kilimanjaro by Ernest Hemingway, this is vision most distinctive in the text as I read today. This scene also happens to remind of a similar experience I shared with my dad skiing in Austria, minus the downhill collision and wooden skis. Even though the book is composed mainly of short stories depicting the lives of different people, Nick is the only recurring character in the book. The first time he appears, he is a kid of my age accompanying his dad to oversee a child birth in a small shanty town possibly in India or maybe South Africa. The fact that Nick is the only kid of my age in the book, if only temporarily, allows me to relate to him a little more on some level making him a likely candidate for friendship. The book has no plot or story line rising action or climax, makes it a little difficult to follow because of its lack of direction. Hemingway’s one defining literary tool is his ability to describe. This book is purely contrived of plain descriptive imagery. Descriptive imagery that is written bluntly and inelegantly but yet portrays awe- inspiring visions of nature and the lively subcultures of the world. This particular candid simplicity contributes in making this book all the more realistic. In the beginning of the book there is a story resulting in the death of a writer on safari in Kenya. If I could jump inside the book I would like to postpone his death.