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Abstract Words Such As Glory, Honor, Courage, Or Hallow Were Obscene Beside The Concrete Names Of Villages, The Numbers Of Roads, The Names Of Rivers, The Numbers Of Regiments And The Dates.

-Ernest Hemingway

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Abstract Words Such As

Ernest Hemingway

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Abstract Words Such As Glory, Honor, Courage, Or Hallow Were Obscene Beside The Concrete Names Of Villages, The Numbers Of Roads, The Names Of Rivers, The Numbers Of Regiments And The Dates.

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The Coward Dies A Thousand Deaths, The Brave But One'.... (the Man Who First Said That) Was Probably A Coward.... He Knew A Great Deal About Cowards But Nothing About The Brave. The Brave Dies Perhaps Two Thousand Deaths If He's Intelligent. He Simply Doesn't Mention Them.

Never Confuse Movement With Action.

Clearly I Miss Him, Having Been Brought Up In Religion. But Now A Man Must Be Responsible To Himself.

He Saw The Girl Watching Him And He Smiled At Her. It Was An Old Smile That He Had Been Using For Fifty Years, Ever Since He First Smiled.

And Another Thing. Don’t Ever Kid Yourself About Loving Some One. It Is Just That Most People Are Not Lucky Enough Ever To Have It. You Never Had It Before And Now You Have It. What You Have With Maria, Whether It Lasts Just Through Today And A Part Of Tomorrow, Or Whether It Lasts For A Long Life Is The Most Important Thing That Can Happen To A Human Being. There Will Always Be People Who Say It Does Not Exist Because They Cannot Have It. But I Tell You It Is True And That You Have It And That You Are Lucky Even If You Die Tomorrow.

I Didn't Want To Kiss You Goodbye — That Was The Trouble — I Wanted To Kiss You Good Night — And There's A Lot Of Difference.

If A Writer Of Prose Knows Enough About What He Is Writing About He May Omit Things That He Knows And The Reader, If The Writer Is Writing Truly Enough, Will Have A Feeling Of Those Things As Strongly As Though The Writer Had Stated Them. The Dignity Of Movement Of An Iceberg Is Due To Only One-eighth Of It Being Above Water. A Writer Who Omits Things Because He Does Not Know Them Only Makes Hollow Places In His Writing.

As Long As You Can Start, You Are All Right. The Juice Will Come.

Sometimes You Know The Story. Sometimes You Make It Up As You Go Along And Have No Idea How It Will Come Out.

I've Seen You, Beauty, And You Belong To Me Now, Whoever You Are Waiting For And If I Never See You Again, I Thought. You Belong To Me And All Paris Belongs To Me And I Belong To This Notebook And This Pencil.

The World Breaks Everyone, And Afterward, Some Are Strong At The Broken Places.

Our Nada Who Art In Nada, Nada Be Thy Name Thy Kingdom Nada Thy Will Be Nada In Nada As It Is In Nada. Give Us This Nada Our Daily Nada And Nada Us Our Nada As We Nada Our Nadas And Nada Us Not Into Nada But Deliver Us From Nada; Pues Nada. Hail Nothing Full Of Nothing, Nothing Is With Thee.

Wine ... Offers A Greater Range For Enjoyment And Appreciation Than Possibly Any Other Purely Sensory Thing Which May Be Purchased.

If A Writer Stops Observing, He Is Finished.

I Am So In Love With You That There Isn’t Anything Else.

Some Other Places Were Not So Good But Maybe We Were Not So Good When We Were In Them.

Until You're Grown-up They Send You To Reform School. After You're Grown-up They Send You To The Penitentiary.

We Are All Apprentices In A Craft Where No One Ever Becomes A Master.

Some Writers Are Only Born To Help Another Writer Write One Sentence.

In War, One Cannot Say What One Feels.

Home Is Where The Heart Is, Home Is Where The Fart Is. Come Let Us Fart In The Home. There Is No Art In A Fart. Still A Fart May Not Be Artless. Let Us Fart And Artless Fart In The Home.

Now Catherine Would Die. That Was What You Did. You Died. You Did Not Know What It Was About. You Never Had Time To Learn. They Threw You In And Told You The Rules And The First Time They Caught You Off Base They Killed You. Or They Killed You Gratuitously Like Aymo. Or Gave You The Syphilis Like Rinaldi. But They Killed You In The End. You Could Count On That. Stay Around And They Would Kill You.

Farewell To Arms

Poor Faulkner. Does He Really Think Big Emotions Come From Big Words? He Thinks I Don’t Know The Ten-dollar Words. I Know Them All Right. But There Are Older And Simpler And Better Words, And Those Are The Ones I Use.

Actually If A Writer Needs A Dictionary He Should Not Write. He Should Have Read The Dictionary At Least Three Times From Beginning To End And Then Have Loaned It To Someone Who Needs It. There Are Only Certain Words Which Are Valid And Similes (bring Me My Dictionary) Are Like Defective Ammunition (the Lowest Thing I Can Think Of At This Time).

It Wasn't By Accident That The Gettysburg Address Was So Short.

When I Had Finished The Book I Knew That No Matter What Scott Did, Nor How He Behaved, I Must Know It Was Like A Sickness And Be Of Any Help I Could To Him And Try To Be A Good Friend. He Had Many Good, Good Friends, More Than Anyone I Knew. But I Enlisted As One More, Whether I Could Be Of Any Use To Him Or Not. If He Could Write A Book As Fine As The Great Gatsby I Was Sure That He Could Write An Even Better One. I Did Not Know Zelda Yet, And So I Did Not Know The Terrible Odds That Were Against Him. But We Were To Find Them Out Soon Enough.

If You're Looking For Messages, Try Western Union.

How Little We Know Of What There Is To Know.

Got Tight On Absinthe Last Night. Did Knife Tricks.

You're Beautiful, Like A May Fly.

You Re Beautiful

Out Of All The Things You Could Not Have There Were Some Things That You Could Have And One Of Those Was To Know When You Were Happy And To Enjoy All Of It While It Was There And It Was Good.

I Was Trying To Write Then And I Found The Greatest Difficulty, Aside From Knowing What You Really Felt, Rather That What You Were Supposed To Feel, And Had Been Taught To Feel, Was To Put Down What Really Happened In Action; What The Actual Things Which Produced The Emotion That You Experienced.

There Were Many Words That You Could Not Stand To Hear And Finally Only The Names Of Places Had Dignity. Certain Numbers Were The Same Way And Certain Dates And These With The Names Of The Places Were All You Could Say And Have Them Mean Anything. Abstract Words Such As Glory, Honor, Courage, Or Hallow Were Obscene Beside The Concrete Names Of Villages, The Numbers Of Roads, The Names Of Rivers, The Numbers Of Regiments And The Dates.

Every Man's Life Ends The Same Way. It Is Only The Details Of How He Lived And How He Died That Distinguish One Man From Another.

I Would Not Have Thought Of Eating A Meal Without Drinking A Beer.

There Is Nothing You Can Do Except Try To Write It The Way That It Was. So You Must Write Each Day Better Than You Possibly Can And Use The Sorrow That You Have Now To Make You Know How The Early Sorrow Came. And You Must Always Remember The Things You Believed Because If You Know Them They Will Be There In The Writing And You Won’t Betray Them. The Writing Is The Only Progress You Make.

Let’s Not Talk About How I Am. It’s A Subject I Know Too Much About To Want To Think About Anymore.

Worry Destroys The Ability To Write.

The Ocean Is Worth Writing About Just As Man Is.

Hombre, There Are Bodegas Open All Night Long.

You Have It Now And That Is All Your Whole Life Is; Now. There Is Nothing Else Than Now. There Is Neither Yesterday, Certainly, Nor Is There Any Tomorrow.

Abstract Words Such As Glory, Honor, Courage, Or Hallow Were Obscene Beside The Concrete Names Of Villages, The Numbers Of Roads, The Names Of Rivers, The Numbers Of Regiments And The Dates.

Perhaps Wars Weren't Won Anymore. Maybe They Went On Forever. Maybe It Was Another Hundred Years' War.

Do Not Think About Sin, He Thought. There Are Enough Problems Now Without Sin. Also I Have No Understanding Of It.

I'm Not Advocating The Strenuous Life For Everyone Or Trying To Say It's The Choice Form Of Life. Anyone Who's Had The Luck Or Misfortune To Be An Athlete Has To Keep His Body In Shape. The Body And Mind Are Closely Coordinated. Fattening Of The Body Can Lead To Fattening Of The Mind. I Would Be Tempted To Say That It Can Lead To Fattening Of The Soul, But I Don't Know Anything About The Soul.

I Kissed Her Hard And Held Her Tight And Tried To Open Her Lips; They Were Closed Tight.

To Be A Successful Father... There's One Absolute Rule: When You Have A Kid, Don't Look At It For The First Two Years.

For Luck You Carried A Horse Chestnut And A Rabbit?s Foot In Your Right Pocket. The Fur Had Been Worn Off The Rabbit?s Foot Long Ago And The Bones And The Sinews Were Polished By The Wear. The Claws Scratched In The Lining Of Your Pocket And You Knew Your Luck Was Still There.

We're Stronger In The Places That We've Been Broken.

But In The Night He Woke And Held Her Tight As Though She Were All Of Life And It Was Being Taken From Him. He Held Her Feeling She Was All Of Life There Was And It Was True.

I Am Always In Love.

Oh Jake," Brett Said, "we Could Have Had Such A Damned Good Time Together." Ahead Was A Mounted Policeman In Khaki Directing Traffic. He Raised His Baton. The Car Slowed Suddenly, Pressing Brett Against Me. Yes," I Said. "isn't It Pretty To Think So?

I Don't Like To Leave Anything,' The Man Said. 'i Don't Like To Leave Things Behind.

No Animal Has More Liberty Than The Cat, But It Buries The Mess It Makes. The Cat Is The Best Anarchist.

Read Anything I Write For The Pleasure Of Reading It. Whatever Else You Find Will Be The Measure Of What You Brought To The Reading.

An Aggressive War Is The Great Crime Against Everything Good In The World. A Defensive War, Which Must Necessarily Turn To Aggressive At The Earliest Moment, Is The Necessary Great Counter-crime. But Never Think That War, No Matter How Necessary, Nor How Justified, Is Not A Crime. Ask The Infantry And Ask The Dead.

Creation's Probably Overrated. After All, God Made The World In Only Six Days And Rested On The Seventh.

The Circus Is The Only Fun You Can Buy That Is Good For You.

For Him It Was A Dark Passage Which Led To Nowhere, Then To Nowhere, Then Again To Nowhere, Once Again To Nowhere, Always And Forever To Nowhere, Heavy On The Elbows In The Earth To Nowhere, Dark, Never Any End To Nowhere, Hung On All Time Always To Unknowing Nowhere, This Time And Again For Always To Nowhere, Now Not To Be Borne Once Again Always And To Nowhere, Now Beyond All Bearing Up, Up, Up And Into Nowhere, Suddenly, Scaldingly, Holdingly All Nowhere Gone And Time Absolutely Still And They Were Both There, Time Having Stopped And He Felt The Earth Move Out And Away From Under Them.

Something, Or Something Awful Or Something Wonderful Was Certain To Happen On Every Day In This Part Of Africa.

All Stories, If Continued Far Enough, End In Death, And He Is No True-story Teller Who Would Keep That From You. Especially Do All Stories Of Monogamy End In Death, And Your Man Who Is Monogamous While He Often Lives Most Happily, Dies In The Most Lonely Fashion.

The Bicycle Riders Drank Much Wine, And Were Burned And Browned By The Sun. They Did Not Take The Race Seriously Except Among Themselves.

If My Valentine You Won't Be, I'll Hang Myself On Your Christmas Tree.

Happy Valentines Day

I Loved Her And I Loved No One Else And We Had A Lovely Magic Time While We Were Alone. I Worked Well And We Made Great Trips, And I Thought We Were Invulnerable Again, And It Wasn't Until We Were Out Of The Mountains In Late Spring, And Back In Paris, That The Other Thing Started Again.

I’m Not Brave Any More Darling. I’m All Broken. They’ve Broken Me.

Farewell To Arms

Dying Was Nothing And He Had No Picture Of It Nor Fear Of It In His Mind. But Living Was A Field Of Grain Blowing In The Wind On The Side Of A Hill. Living Was A Hawk In The Sky. Living Was An Earthen Jar Of Water In The Dust Of The Threshing With The Grain Flailed Out And The Chaff Blowing. Living Was A Horse Between Your Legs And A Carbine Under One Leg And A Hill And A Valley And A Stream With Trees Along It And The Far Side Of The Valley And The Hills Beyond.

For What Are We Born If Not To Aid One Another?

What Did I Know Best That I Had Not Written About And Lost? What Did I Know About Truly And Care For The Most?

Cowardice, As Distinguished From Panic, Is Almost Always Simply A Lack Of Ability To Suspend The Functioning Of The Imagination.

I Have Noticed That Doctors Who Fail In The Practice Of Medicine Have A Tendency To Seek One Another's Company And Aid In Consultation.

Practice Of Medicine

Farewell To Arms

In The Early Morning On The Lake Sitting In The Stern Of The Boat With His Father Rowing, He Felt Quite Sure That He Would Never Die.

At Night, Never Go To Bed Without Knowing What You'll Write Tomorrow.

It Is All Very Well For You To Write Simply And The Simpler The Better. But Do Not Start To Think So Damned Simply. Know How Complicated It Is And Then State It Simply.

I May Not Be As Stong As I Think, But I Know Many Tricks And I Have Resolution.

America Is The Land Of Wide Lawns And Narrow Minds.

Night Life Is When Everybody Says What The Hell And You Do Not Remember Who Paid The Bill.

Everything That's Innocent To Us Is Crazy To Them.

Eschew The Monumental. Shun The Epic. All The Guys Who Can Paint Great Big Pictures Can Paint Great Small Ones.

Never Mistake Motion For Action.

I Was As Afraid As The Next Man In My Time And Maybe More So. But With The Years, Fear Had Come To Be Regarded As A Form Of Stupidity To Be Classed With Overdrafts, Acquiring A Venereal Disease Or Eating Candies. Fear Is A Child's Vice And While I Loved To Feel It Approach, As One Does With Any Vice, It Was Not For Grown Men And The Only Thing To Be Afraid Of Was The Presence Of True And Imminent Danger In A Form That You Should Be Aware Of And Not Be A Fool If You Were Responsible For Others.

You're Going To Write Straight And Simple And Good Now. That's The Start.''what If I'm Not Straight And Simple And Good? Do You Think I Can Write That Way?''write How You Are But Make It Straight.

I Think You Should Learn About Writing From Everybody Who Has Ever Written That Has Anything To Teach You

You Could Omit Anything If You Knew That The Omitted Part Would Strengthen The Short Story And Make People Feel Something More Than They Understood

There Is No Night Life In Spain. They Stay Up Late But They Get Up Late. That Is Not Night Life. That Is Delaying The Day.

Mr. Barnes, It Is Because I Have Lived Very Much That Now I Can Enjoy Everything So Well

To Be Able To Say: I Loved This Person, We Had A Hell Of A Nice Time Together, It's Over But In A Way It Will Never Be Over And I Do Know That I For Sure Loved This Person, To Be Able To Say That And Mean It, That's Rare. That's Rare And Valuable.

Got Tight Last Night On Absinthe And Did Knife Tricks. Great Success Shooting The Knife Underhand Into The Piano. The Woodworms Are So Bad And Eat Hell Out Of All The Furniture That You Can Always Claim The Woodworms Did It.

Never Fall In Love?" "always," Said The Count. "i Am Always In Love.

Falling In Love

Never Fall In Love

However You Make Your Living Is Where Your Talent Lies.

We Ate Well And Cheaply And Drank Well And Cheaply And Slept Well And Warm Together And Loved Each Other.

The House Was Built On The Highest Part Of The Narrow Tongue Of Land Between The Harbor And The Open Sea. It Had Lasted Through Three Hurricanes And It Was Built Solid As A Ship.

The Brown Blotches Of The Benevolent Skin Cancer The Sun Brings From Its Reflection On The Tropic Sea Were On His Cheeks. The Blotches Ran Well Down The Sides Of His Face And His Hands Had The Deep-creased Scars From Handling Heavy Fish On The Cords. But None Of These Scars Were Fresh. They Were As Old As Erosions In A Fishless Desert.

But Paris Was A Very Old City And We Were Young And Nothing Was Simple There.

I Rewrote The Ending Of 'farewell To Arms' 39 Times Before I Was Satisfied.

Fascism Is A Lie Told By Bullies.

Up The Road, In His Shack, The Old Man Was Sleeping Again. He Was Still Sleeping On His Face And The Boy Was Sitting By Him Watching Him. The Old Man Was Dreaming About The Lions.

The Smallest Coffins Are The Heaviest.

Maybe...you'll Fall In Love With Me All Over Again." "hell," I Said, "i Love You Enough Now. What Do You Want To Do? Ruin Me?" "yes. I Want To Ruin You." "good," I Said. "that's What I Want Too.

Life Breaks Us All But In The End We Are Stronger In The Broken Places.

Religion Is Like An Ice Cold Whiskey On A Hot Day.

It Was A Pleasant Cafe, Warm And Clean And Friendly, And I Hung Up My Old Water-proof On The Coat Rack To Dry And Put My Worn And Weathered Felt Hat On The Rack Above The Bench And Ordered A Cafe Au Lait. The Waiter Brought It And I Took Out A Notebook From The Pocket Of The Coat And A Pencil And Started To Write.

I Believe That Basically You Write For Two People; Yourself To Try To Make It Absolutely Perfect; Or If Not That Then Wonderful. Then You Write For Who You Love Whether She Can Read Or Write Or Not And Whether She Is Alive Or Dead.

Madame, It Is An Old Word And Each One Takes It New And Wears It Out Himself. It Is A Word That Fills With Meaning As A Bladder With Air And The Meaning Goes Out Of It As Quickly. It May Be Punctured As A Bladder Is Punctured And Patched And Blown Up Again And If You Have Not Had It Does Not Exist For You. All People Talk Of It, But Those Who Have Had It Are Marked By It, And I Would Not Wish To Speak Of It Further Since Of All Things It Is The Most Ridiculous To Talk Of And Only Fools Go Through It Many Times.

Most People Are Heartless About Turtles Because A Turtle's Heart Will Beat For Hours After He Has Been Cut Up And Butchered. But The Old Man Thought, I Have Such A Heart Too And My Feet And Hands Are Like Theirs.

No Good Book Has Ever Been Written That Has In It Symbols Arrived At Beforehand And Stuck In. ... I Tried To Make A Real Old Man, A Real Boy, A Real Sea And A Real Fish And Real Sharks. But If I Made Them Good And True Enough They Would Mean Many Things

As I Ate The Oysters With Their Strong Taste Of The Sea And Their Faint Metallic Taste That The Cold White Wine Washed Away, Leaving Only The Sea Taste And The Succulent Texture, And As I Drank Their Cold Liquid From Each Shell And Washed It Down With The Crisp Taste Of The Wine, I Lost The Empty Feeling And Began To Be Happy And To Make Plans.

Where A Man Feels At Home, Outside Of Where He’s Born, Is Where He’s Meant To Go.

The Writer's Job Is Not To Judge, But To Seek To Understand.

How Do You Tell A Valuable French Book?' 'first There Are The Pictures. Then It Is A Question Of The Quality Of The Pictures. Then It Is The Binding. If A Book Is Good, The Owner Will Have It Bound Properly. All Books In English Are Bound, But Bound Badly. There Is No Way Of Judging Them.

Honor To A Spaniard, No Matter How Dishonest, Is As Real A Thing As Water, Wine, Or Olive Oil. There Is Honor Among Pickpockets And Honor Among Whores. It Is Simply That The Standards Differ.

Why Did They Make Birds So Delicate And Fine As Those Sea Swallows When The Ocean Can Be So Cruel?

Dying Is A Very Simple Thing. I've Looked At Death And Really I Know. If I Should Have Died It Would Have Been Very Easy For Me. Quite The Easiest Thing I Ever Did. But The People At Home Do Not Realize That. They Suffer A Thousand Times More.

But You Always Fall For Somebody Else And Then It's All Right. Fall For Them But Don't Let Them Ruin You.

For A True Writer Each Book Should Be A New Beginning Where He Tries Again For Something That Is Beyond Attainment. He Should Always Try For Something That Has Never Been Done Or That Others Have Tried And Failed. Then Sometimes, With Great Luck, He Will Succeed.

I Never Liked To Hunt, You Know. There Was Always The Danger Of Having A Horse Fall On You.

Tell Me Some True Things About Fighting.''tell Me You Love Me.''i Love You,' The Girl Said. 'you Can Publish It In The Gazzettino If You Like. I Love Your Hard, Flat Body And Your Strange Eyes That Frighten Me When They Become Wicked. I Love Your Hand And All Your Other Wounded Places.

There Is No Lonelier Man In Death, Except The Suicide, Than That Man Who Has Lived Many Years With A Good Wife And Then Outlived Her. If Two People Love Each Other There Can Be No Happy End To It.

Today Is Only One Day In All The Days That Will Ever Be. But What Will Happen In All The Other Days That Ever Come Can Depend On What You Do Today. It's Been That Way All This Year. It's Been That Way So Many Times. All Of War Is That Way.

The Clouds Were Building Up Now For The Trade Wind And He Looked Ahead And Saw A Flight Of Wild Ducks Etching Themselves Against The Sky Over The Water, Then Blurring, Then Etching Again And He Knew No Man Was Ever Alone On The Sea.

To Hell With Luck. I'll Bring The Luck With Me.

Wonder What Day God Created The Egg' 'how Should We Know? We Should Not Question. Our Stay On Earth Is Not For Long. Let Us Rejoice And Believe And Give Thanks'. 'eat A Egg

It Was Considered A Virtue Not To Talk Unnecessarily At Sea.

The Only Kind Of Writing Is Rewriting.

We're Always Lucky,' I Said And Like A Fool I Did Not Knock On Wood.

Having Books Published Is Very Destructive To Writing. It Is Even Worse Than Making Love Too Much. Because When You Make Love Too Much At Least You Get A Damned Clarte That Is Like No Other Light. A Very Clear And Hollow Light.

For A Poet He Threw A Very Accurate Milk Bottle.

Ezra Was Right Half The Time, And When He Was Wrong, He Was So Wrong You Were Never In Any Doubt About It.

Life Is The Best Left Hooker I Ever Saw, Although Some Say It Was Charlie White Of Chicago

You Ought To Be Ironical The Minute You Get Out Of Bed. You Ought To Wake Up With Your Mouth Full Of Pity.

Develop A Built-in Bullshit Detector.

There Are Only Two Places In The World Where We Can Live Happy: At Home And In Paris.

Writing Is A Hard Business...but Nothing Makes You Feel Better.

Write As Well As You Can And Finish What You Start.

I Did Not Care What It Was All About. All I Wanted To Know Was How To Live In It. Maybe If You Found Out How To Live In It You Learned From That What Is Was All About.

The Most Beautiful Fighting Machine I Have Ever Seen

Organizations For Writers Palliate The Writer's Loneliness, But I Doubt If They Improve His Writing.... For He Does His Work Alone And If He Is A Good Enough Writer He Must Face Eternity, Or The Lack Of It, Each Day.

This Was The Price You Paid For Sleeping Together. This Was The End Of The Trap. This Was What People Got For Loving Each Other.

Oh, Darling, I've Been So Miserable.

You Are All A Lost Generation. [with Credit To Gertrude Stein]

When I Saw My Wife Again Standing By The Tracks As The Train Came In By The Piled Logs At The Station, I Wished I Had Died Before I Had Ever Loved Anyone But Her.

Part Of You Died Each Year When The Leaves Fell From The Trees And Their Branches Were Bare Against The Wind And The Cold, Wintry Light.

Critics Are Men Who Watch A Battle From A High Place Then Come Down And Shoot The Survivors.

But Sometimes When I Was Starting A New Story And I Could Not Get It Going, I Would Sit In Front Of The Fire And Squeeze The Peel Of The Little Oranges Into The Edge Of The Flame And Watch The Sputter Of Blue That They Made. I Would Stand And Look Out Over The Roofs Of Paris And Think, 'do Not Worry. You Have Always Written Before And You Will Write Now. All You Have To Do Is Write One True Sentence. Write The Truest Sentence That You Know.' So Finally I Would Write One True Sentence, And Then Go On From There.

Everyone My Age Had Written A Novel And I Was Still Having Difficulty Writing A Paragraph.

An Intelligent Man Is Sometimes Forced To Be Drunk To Spend Time With His Fools.

The Further You Go In Writing The More Alone You Are. Most Of Your Best And Oldest Friends Die. Others Move Away. You Do Not See Them Except Rarely, But You Write And Have Much The Same Contact With Them As Though You Were Together At The Café In The Old Days. You Exchange Comic, Sometimes Cheerfully Obscene And Irresponsible Letters, And It Is Almost As Good As Talking. But You Are More Alone Because That Is How You Must Work And The Time To Work Is Shorter All The Time And If You Waste It You Feel You Have Committed A Sin For Which There Is No Forgiveness.

No Tears In The Writer, No Tears In The Reader.

I Have A Rotten Habit Of Picturing The Bedroom Scenes Of My Friends.

The Telephone And Visitors Are The Work Destroyers.

Being Against Evil Doesn't Make You Good.

Good Against Evil

If The Book Is Good, Is About Something That You Know, And Is Truly Written, And Reading It Over You See That This Is So, You Can Let The Boys Yip And The Noise Will Have That Pleasant Sound Coyotes Make On A Very Cold Night When They Are Out In The Snow And You Are In Your Own Cabin That You Have Built Or Paid For With Your Work.

You're An Expatriate. You've Lost Touch With The Soil. You Get Precious. Fake European Standards Have Ruined You. You Drink Yourself To Death. You Become Obsessed By Sex. You Spend All Your Time Talking, Not Working. You Are An Expatriate, See? You Hang Around Cafts.

Wine Is The Most Civilized Thing In The World.

What Is The Definition Of Guts? Grace Under Pressure.

Prose Is Architecture, Not Interior Decoration, And The Baroque Is Over.

Since I Had Started To Break Down All My Writing And Get Rid Of All Facility And Try To Make Instead Of Describe, Writing Had Been Wonderful To Do.

There Is Nothing To Writing. All You Do Is Sit Down At A Typewriter And Bleed.

The Only Way To Combat The Murder That Is War Is To Show The Dirty Combinations That Make It And The Criminals And Swine That Hope For It And The Idiotic Way They Run It When They Get It So That An Honest Man Will Distrust It As He Would Distrust A Racket And Refuse To Be Enslaved Into It.

Work Could Cure Almost Anything

I Love You For All That You Are, All That You Have Been, All That You're Yet To Be.

There's No One Thing That's True. It's All True.

The Echoes Of Beauty You've Seen Transpire, Resound Through Dying Coals Of A Campfire.

But I Think The Great Dimaggio Would Be Proud Of Me Today.

Ronda Is The Place Where To Go, If You Are Planning To Travel To Spain For A Honeymoon Or For Being With A Girlfriend. The Whole City And Its Surroundings Are A Romantic Set. ... Nice Promenades, Good Wine, Excellent Food, Nothing To Do.

We Wait Always For Something That Does Not Come.

Details Make Stories Human, And The More Human A Story Can Be, The Better.

The Bulls Are My Best Friends." I Translated To Brett. "you Kill Your Friends?" She Asked. "always," He Said In English, And Laughed. "so They Don't Kill Me.

Easy Writing Makes Hard Reading.

Take A Good Rest, Small Bird," He Said. "then Go In And Take Your Chance Like Any Man Or Bird Or Fish.

In Africa A Thing Is True At First Light And A Lie By Noon And You Have No More Respect For It Than For The Lovely, Perfect Wood-fringed Lake You See Across The Sun-baked Salt Plain. You Have Walked Across That Plain In The Morning And You Know That No Such Lake Is There. But Now It Is There Absolutely True, Beautiful And Believable.

Auto Racing, Bull Fighting, And Mountain Climbing Are The Only Real Sports... All The Others Are Games.

When Spring Came, Even The False Spring, There Were No Problems Except Where To Be Happiest.

God Knows I Didn't Mean To Fall In Love With Her

Falling In Love

It Wasn't By Accident That The Gettysburg Address Was So Short. The Laws Of Prose Writing Are As Immutable As Those Of Flight, Of Mathematics, Of Physics.

As You Get Older It Is Harder To Have Heroes, But It Is Sort Of Necessary.

No Catalogue Of Horrors Ever Kept Men From War. Before The War You Always Think That It's Not You That Dies. But You Will Die, Brother, If You Go To It Long Enough.

When I Am Working On A Book Or A Story I Write Every Morning As Soon After First Light As Possible. There Is No One To Disturb You And Is It Is Cool And You Come To Your Work And Warm As You Write. You Read What You Have Written And, As You Always Stop When You Know What Is Going To Happen Next, You Go On From There. You Write Until You Come To A Place Where You Still Have Your Juice And Know What Will Happen Next And You Stop And Try To Live Through Until The Next Day When You Hit Again.

Do Not Worry. You Have Always Written Before And You Will Write Now.

I Am One Of Those Who Like To Stay Late At The Cafe," The Older Waiter Said. "with All Those Who Do Not Want To Go To Bed. With All Those Who Need A Light For The Night." "i Want To Go Home And Into Bed." "we Are Of Two Different Kinds," The Older Waiter Said. He Was Now Dressed To Go Home. "it Is Not Only A Question Of Youth And Confidence Although Those Things Are Very Beautiful. Each Night. I Am Reluctant To Close Up Because There May Be Someone Who Needs The Cafe.

Everything That A Painter Did Or That A Writer Wrote Was A Part Of His Training And Preparation For What He Was To Do.

Kilimanjaro Is A Snow-covered Mountain 19,710 Feet High, And Is Said To Be The Highest Mountain In Africa. Its Western Summit Is Called The Masai 'ngaje Ngai', The House Of God. Close To The Western Summit There Is A Dried And Frozen Carcas Of A Leopard. No One Has Explained What The Leopard Was Seeking At That Altitude.

No; That Doesn't Interest Me.' 'that's Because You Never Read A Book About It.

God Knows, People Who Are Paid To Have Attitudes Toward Things, Professional Critics, Make Me Sick; Camp-following Eunuchs Of Literature.

My Writing Is Nothing, My Boxing Is Everything.

As A Nobel Prize Winner I Cannot But Regret That The Award Was Never Given To Mark Twain, Nor To Henry James, Speaking Only Of My Own Countrymen. Greater Writers Than These Also Did Not Receive The Prize. I Would Have Been Happy - Happier - Today If The Prize Had Been Given To That Beautiful Writer Isak Dinesen.

Thou Wilt Go Now, Rabbit. But I Go With Thee. As Long As There Is One Of Us There Is Both Of Us.

A Man's Got To Take A Lot Of Punishment To Write A Really Funny Book.

And Who Understands? Not Me, Because If I Did I Would Forgive It All.

The Real Reason For Not Committing Suicide Is Because You Always Know How Swell Life Gets Again After The Hell Is Over.

There Is Never Any Ending To Paris And The Memory Of Each Person Who Has Lived In It Differs From That Of Any Other. We Always Returned To It No Matter Who We Were Or How It Was Changed Or With What Difficulties, Or Ease, It Could Be Reached. Paris Was Always Worth It And You Received Return For Whatever You Brought To It. But This Is How Paris Was In The Early Days When We Were Very Poor And Very Happy.

Show The Readers Everything, Tell Them Nothing.

All Thinking Men Are Atheists.

Switzerland Is A Small, Steep Country, Much More Up And Down Than Sideways, And Is All Stuck Over With Large Brown Hotels Built On The Cuckoo Clock Style Of Architecture.

Do You Know How An Ugly Woman Feels? Do You Know What It Is To Be Ugly All Your Life And Inside To Feel That You Are Beautiful? It Is Very Rare.

Once Writing Has Become Your Major Vice And Greatest Pleasure Only Death Can Stop It.

Work Every Day. No Matter What Has Happened The Day Or Night Before, Get Up And Bite On The Nail.

Wars Are Caused By Undefended Wealth.

The Story Was Writing Itself And I Was Having A Hard Time Keeping Up With It.

The First And Final Thing You Have To Do In This World Is To Last It And Not Be Smashed By It.

All You Have To Do Is Write One True Sentence. Write The Truest Sentence That You Know.

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