Quote

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.

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
Seen
Beauty
Pencil
Waiting
Notebook
Thought
Pencils
Never
Belongs
Whoever
Paris
Belong

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In the morning there was a big wind blowing and the waves were running high up on the beach and he was awake a long time before he remembered that his heart was broken.
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There is no friend as loyal as a book.
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Why did they make birds so delicate and fine as those sea swallows when the ocean can be so cruel?
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Enjoying living was learning to get your money's worth and knowing when you had it.
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A man does not exist until he is drunk.
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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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You don't have to destroy me. Do you? I'm only a woman who loves you and wants to do what you want to do. I've been destroyed two or three times already. You wouldn't want to destroy me again, would you?
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The rain will stop, the night will end, the hurt will fade. Hope is never so lost that it can't be found.
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She is kind and very beautiful. But she can be so cruel and it comes so suddenly and such birds that fly, dipping and hunting, with their small sad voices are made too delicately for the sea.
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My father was a deeply sentimental man. And like all sentimental men, he was also very cruel.
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Retirement is the ugliest word in the language.
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Decadence is a difficult word to use since it has become little more than a term of abuse applied by critics to anything they do not yet understand or which seems to differ from their moral concepts.
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Being against evil doesn't make you good. Tonight I was against it and then I was evil myself. I could feel it coming just like a tide... I just want to destroy them. But when you start taking pleasure in it you are awfully close to the thing you're fighting.
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There is a mystery in all great writing and that mystery does not dissect out. It continues and is always valid.
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Only that which makes you feel bad after doing is immoral.
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You can write any time people will leave you alone and not interrupt you. Or rather you can if you will be ruthless enough about it. But the best writing is certainly when you are in love.
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The most painful thing is losing yourself in the process of loving someone too much, and forgetting that you are special too.
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Being against evil doesn't make you good.
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Luck is a thing that comes in many forms and who can recognize her?
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There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.
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