He lay flat on the brown, pine-needled floor of the forest, his chin on his folded arms, and high overhead the wind blew in the tops of the pine trees. The mountainside sloped gently where he lay; but below it was steep and he could see the dark of the oiled road winding through the pass. There was a stream alongside the road and water of the dam, white in the summer sunlight.
Ernest HemingwayWe are stronger in our broken places.
Ernest HemingwayEach 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 HemingwayMots clés work oppression self-hatred work-ethic will-to-work
For God sake write and don't worry about what the boys will say nor whether it will be a masterpiece nor what.
I write one page of masterpiece to ninety one pages of shit. I try to put the shit in the wastebasket.
Love is a dunghill, and I'm the cock that gets on it to crow.
Ernest HemingwayIn life, one must (first) last." (“Dans la vie, il faut [d'abord] durer.”)
Ernest HemingwayMots clés suffer withstand endure
It was baking hot in the square when we came out after lunch with our bags and the rod-case to go to Burguete. People were on top of the bus, and others were climbing up a ladder. Bill went up and Robert sat beside Bill to save a place for me, and I went back in the hotel to get a couple of bottles of wine to take with us. When I came out the bus was crowded. Men and women were sitting on all the baggage and boxes on top, and the women all had their fans going in the sun. It certainly was hot. Robert climbed down and fitted into the place he had saved on the one wooden seat that ran across the top. Robert Cohn stood in the shade of the arcade waiting for us to start. A Basque with a big leather wine-bag in his lap lay across the top of the bus in front of our seat, leaning back against our legs. He offered the wine-skin to Bill and to me, and when I tipped it up to drink he imitated the sound of a klaxon motor-horn so well and so suddenly that spilled some of the wine, and everybody laughed. He apologized and made me take another drink. He made the klaxon again a little later, and it fooled me the second time. He was very good at it. The Basques liked it. The man next to Bill was talking to him in Spanish and Bill was not getting it, so he offered the man one of the bottles of wine. The man waved it away. He said it was too hot and he had drunk too much at lunch. When Bill offered the bottle the second time he took a long drink, and then the bottle went all over that part of the bus. Every one took a drink very politely, and then they made us cork it up and put it away. They all wanted us to drink from their leather wine-bottles. They were peasants going up into the hills.
Ernest HemingwayMots clés alcohol wine basque-people
Only I have no luck any more. But who knows? Maybe today. Every day is a new day. It is better to be lucky. But I would rather be exact. Then when luck comes you are ready.
Ernest HemingwayMots clés luck preparation hard-work hemingway ernest-hemingway the-old-man-and-the-sea
My big fish must be somewhere.
Ernest HemingwayMots clés hemingway ernest-hemingway the-old-man-and-the-sea
Si-apoi, se gândi batrânul, toata lumea omoara pe toata lumea într-un fel sau altul. Pescuitul ma omoara în aceeasi masura în care ma tine în viata.
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