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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.
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
Boys
Sleep
Shack
Face
Dreaming
Faces
Lions
Dream
Sleeping
Stills
Road
Still
Watching
Men
Sitting
More quotes by Ernest Hemingway
You know you’re writing well when you're throwing good stuff into the wastebasket.
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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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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.
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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.
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Enjoying living was learning to get your money's worth and knowing when you had it.
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The telephone and visitors are the work destroyers.
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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.
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Cheer up,' I said. 'All countries look just like the moving pictures.
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The best writing is certainly when you are in love
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To hell with them. Nothing hurts if you don't let it.
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For her everything was red, orange, gold-red from the sun on the closed eyes, and it all was that color, all of it, the filling, the possessing, the having, all of that color, all in a blindness of that color. - Ernest Hemingway.
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I would take anything I love and throw it off the highest cliff you ever saw and not wait to hear it bounce.
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The old man looked at him with his sun-burned, confident loving eyes.
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After writing a story I was always empty and both sad and happy, as though I had made love.
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So this was how you died, in whispers that you did not hear.
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A big lie is more plausible than truth.
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I kept this to remind me of you trying to brush away the Villa Rossa from your teeth in the morning, swearing and eating aspirin and cursing harlots. Every time I see that glass I think of you trying to clean your conscience with a toothbrush.
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Never mistake motion for action.
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Now, being in Africa, I was hungry for more of it, the changes of the seasons, the rains with no need to travel, the discomforts that you paid to make it real, the names of the trees, of the small animals, and all the birds, to know the language and have time to be in it and to move slowly.
Ernest Hemingway
