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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
Still
Watching
Men
Sitting
Boys
Sleep
Shack
Face
Dreaming
Faces
Lions
Dream
Sleeping
Stills
Road
More quotes by Ernest Hemingway
And bed, he thought. Bed is my friend. Just bed, he thought. Bed will be a great thing. It is easy when you are beaten, he thought. I never knew how easy it was. And what beat you, the thought.
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Never think that war, no matter how necessary, nor how justified, is not a crime.
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There are only two places in the world where we can live happy: at home and in Paris.
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There are some things which cannot be learned quickly, and time, which is all we have, must be paid heavily for their acquiring.
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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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It's a town you come to for a short time.
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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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He remembered poor Julian [actually F. Scott Fitzgerald] and his romantic awe of them and how he had started a story once that began, The very rich are different from you and me. And how someone had said to Julian, Yes, they have more money.
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Never sit a table when you can stand at the bar.
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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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There can be no great literature in America until her writers have learned to trust her implicitly and love her devoutly.
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It is a miserable thing to have people writing about your private life while you are alive. I have tried to stop it all that I could but there have been many abuses by people I trusted. You cannot stop trusting people in life but I have learned to be a little bit careful. The way to make people trust-worthy is to trust them.
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And you treat me wonderfully and keep all your promises.
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You see I'm trying in all my stories to get the feeling of the actual life across, not just to depict life, or criticize it, but to actually make it alive.
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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.
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Keep right on lying to me. That's what I want you to do.
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The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places.
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Anyone who says he wants to be a writer and isn't writing, doesn't.
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A big lie is more plausible than truth.
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I wish I had died before I ever loved anyone but her.
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