Ernest Hemingway Quotes
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She was looking into my eyes with that way she had of looking that made you wonder whether she really saw out of her own eyes. They would look on and on after every one else's eyes in the world would have stopped looking. She looked as though there were nothing on earth she would not look at like that, and really she was afraid of so many things.
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Try to learn to breathe deeply, really to taste food when you eat, and when you sleep, really to sleep. Try as much as possible to be wholly alive with all your might, and when you laugh, laugh like hell. And when you get angry, get good and angry. Try to be alive. You will be dead soon enough.
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I say that is wine," Brett held up her glass. "We ought to toast something. 'Here's to royalty.'" "This wine is too good for toast-drinking, my dear. you don't want to mix emotions up with a wine like that. you lose the taste." Brett's glass was empty.
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I learned never to empty the well of my writing, but always to stop when there was still something there in the deep part of the well, and let it refill at night from the springs that fed it.
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The cat has complete emotional honesty - an attribute not often found in humans.
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Never go on trips with anyone you do not love.
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Perhaps I should not have been a fisherman, he thought. But that was the thing that I was born for.
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Writing is the clumsy attempt to find symbols for wordlessness.
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It was considered a virtue not to talk unnecessarily at sea.
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My only regret in life is that I did not drink more wine.
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No animal has more liberty than the cat, but it buries the mess it makes. The cat is the best anarchist.
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Each day of not writing, of comfort, of being that which he despised, dulled his ability and softened his will to work so that, finally, he did no work at all.
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Before you react, think. Before you spend, earn. Before you criticize, wait. Before you quit, try.
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All things truly wicked start from innocence.
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The only thing that could spoil a day was people. People were always the limiters of happiness except for the very few that were as good as spring itself.
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I was a little drunk. Not drunk in any positive sense but just enough to be careless.
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As to Hemingway, I read him for the first time in the early 'forties, something about bells, balls and bulls, and loathed it.
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A girl came in the cafe and sat by herself at a table near the window. She was very pretty with a face fresh as a newly minted coin if they minted coins in smooth flesh with rain-freshened skin, and her hair black as a crow's wing and cut sharply and diagonally across her cheek.
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Because Fascism is a lie, it is condemned to literary sterility. And when it is past, it will have no history, except the bloody history of murder.
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They can't yank a novelist like they can a pitcher. A novelist has to go the full nine, even if it kills him.
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You ought to be ironical the minute you get out of bed. You ought to wake up with your mouth full of pity.
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Rush, that most exciting perversion of life, the necessity of accomplishing something in less time than should be truly allowed for its doing.
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Always quit for the day when you know what you want to do next.
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His (the writer's) standard of fidelity to the truth should be so high that his invention, out of his experience, should produce a truer account than anything factual can be.