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And who understands? Not me, because if I did I would forgive it all.

Ernest Hemingway

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Ernest Hemingway
Age: 61 †
Born: 1899
Born: July 21
Died: 1961
Died: July 2
Author
Journalist
Novelist
Playwright
Poet
Screenwriter
War Correspondent
Writer
Oak Park
Illinois
Hemingway
Ernest Miller Hemmingway
E. M. Hemmingway
E. Hemmingway
E. Hemingway
Ernest M. Hemingway
Ernest Miller Hemingway
Understands
Forgive
Forgiving
Would

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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
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When you start to live outside yourself, it's all dangerous.
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It is by riding a bicycle that you learn the contours of a country best, since you have to sweat up the hills and coast down them.
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This was a big storm and he might as well enjoy it. It was ruining everything, but you might as well enjoy it
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When you work hard all day with your head and know you must work again the next day what else can change your ideas and make them run on a different plane like whisky?
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He was violating the second rule of the two rules for getting on well with people that speak Spanish give the men tobacco and leave the women alone
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And the ones who would not make war? Can they stop it?
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Listen now. When people talk listen completely. Don't be thinking what you're going to say. Most people never listen. Nor do they observe.
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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.
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It was like certain dinners I remember from the war. There was much wine, an ignored tension, and a feeling of things coming that you could not prevent happening. Under the wine I lost the disgusted feeling and was happy. It seemed they were all such nice people.
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It's a town you come to for a short time.
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Somebody just back of you while you are fishing is as bad as someone looking over your shoulder while you write a letter to your girl.
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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.
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It is a hell of a thing to be hungry in your own house.
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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.
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The English talked with inflected phrases. One phrase to mean everything.
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Life is pain, so live it up while you can.
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