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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.
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