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He rested sitting on the un-stepped mast and sail and tried not to think but only to endure.
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
Stepped
Sail
Endure
Tried
Sitting
Think
Mast
Thinking
Masts
Rested
More quotes by Ernest Hemingway
The shortest answer is doing the thing.
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Not the why but the what.
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I did not understand them but they did not have any mystery, and when I understood them they meant nothing to me. I was sorry about this but there was nothing I could do about it.
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Wine ... offers a greater range for enjoyment and appreciation than possibly any other purely sensory thing which may be purchased.
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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.
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What did I know best that I had not written about and Lost? What did I know about truly and care for the most?
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The bicycle riders drank much wine, and were burned and browned by the sun. They did not take the race seriously except among themselves.
Ernest Hemingway
Everyone my age had written a novel and I was still having difficulty writing a paragraph.
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Remember everything is right until it's wrong. You'll know when it's wrong.
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Sometimes you know the story. Sometimes you make it up as you go along and have no idea how it will come out.
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I suppose if a man has something once, always something of it remains.
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Retirement is the ugliest word in the language.
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This beer is good for you. This is draft beer. Stick with the beer. Let's go and beat this guy up and come back and drink some more beer.
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Any man who eats dessert is not drinking enough.
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A beautiful vacuum filled with wealthy monogamists, all powerful and members of the best families all drinking themselves to death.
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You know you’re writing well when you're throwing good stuff into the wastebasket.
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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.
Ernest Hemingway
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.
Ernest Hemingway
The better the writers the less they will speak about what they have written themselves.
Ernest Hemingway
The echoes of beauty you've seen transpire, Resound through dying coals of a campfire.
Ernest Hemingway
