Young Ernest Hemingway. Drawn with sharpie marker from a photograph. 

The shape of his face is off because I drew it without looking down at the paper, but I think it’s a pretty good little sketch of Hemingway. 

Here is an excerpt from GREEN HILLS OF AFRICA. Not one of his biggest books, but one of my favorites…

Every morning now it took the heavy, woolly sky an hour or so longer to clear and you could feel the rains coming, as they moved steadily north, as surely as though you watched them on a chart.  
Now it is pleasant to hunt something that you want very much over a long period of time, being outwitted, outmanoeuvred, and failing at the end of each day, but having the hunt and knowing every time you are out that, sooner or later, your luck will change and that you will get the chance that you are seeking. But it is not pleasant to have a time limit by which you must get your kudu or perhaps never get it, nor even see one. It is not the way hunting should be. It is too much like those boys who used to be sent to Paris with two years in which to make good as writers or painters, after which, if they had not made good, they could go home and into their fathers’ businesses. The way to hunt is for as long as you live against as long as there is such and such an animal; just as the way to paint is as long as there is you and colours and canvas, and to write as long as you can live and there is pencil and paper or ink or any machine to do it with, or anything you care to write about, and you feel a fool, and you are a fool, to do it any other way.