Canter Bridge

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Now eclipsed by the Streep-Redford film presentation that appropriated its title, Karen Blixen’s memoir of life on her Kenyan coffee farm speaks movingly of the more benign side of colonialism in Africa and of one European’s self-evident love for the land she had made her own.

Sadly, Blixen’s lush descriptions of ‘her people’ are often judged too quickly by modern criteria of racial attitudes, a game that is like asking this early twentieth-century writer to wrestle with one arm tied behind her back. If it can be granted that there was anything good about Europe’s colonization of Africa, then Bliksen (Isak Dinesen was her pen name) is its face.

She loved the land and its people, entering about as far as was plausible in her time into the remarkable rhythm of both. What more can be asked of any of us, all children of our moment and enveloped in its limitations?

This is a book for lovers of Africa, no matter whence they come. Blixen not only pushed an eloquent pen, she was herself shaped in the biblical and classical language of educated Europeans in a way that prepared her to bridge Africa and Europe in a day when few were equipped to do so.

Blixen’s Africa no longer exists, as she already realized within the window of her writing of Out of Africa and Shadows on the Grass. Yet the Africa Blixen knew has children, not to be disinherited for the generations that have passed and the unsavory disease that a legacy of failed leaders has wrought upon this great continent. Though the primary fruit of reaching behind the celluloid to read Out of Africa is the satisfaction of the read itself, it is also true that today’s Africa and today’s Africans can be glimpsed in the great-grandparents who knew and lived in proximity to this enigmatic and uniquely gifted Danish colonist in a land she mistreated only by calling it hers.