There isn't any me. I'm you. Don't make up a separate me.
Ernest HemingwayTag: love-lovers
I don't want to be your friend, baby. I am your friend.
Ernest HemingwayTag: friendship
And this was the price you paid for sleeping together.
Ernest HemingwayTag: sex
The most painful thing is losing yourself in the process of loving someone too much, and forgetting that you are special too.
Ernest HemingwayTag: pain love relationships self
That was what you did. You died. You did not know what it was about. You never had any time to learn. They threw you in and told you the rules and the first time they caught you off base they killed you. Or they killed you gratuitously like Aymo. Or gave you the syphilis like Rinaldi. But they killed you in the end. You could count on that. Stay around and they would kill you.
Ernest Hemingwayالرذيلة شيءٌ مذهِل
Ernest Hemingwayتبدو صغيرة جداً تلكَ العقبات التي بدت يوماً كبيرةٌ جداً
Ernest HemingwayThis book is fiction, but there is always a chance that such a work of fiction may throw some light on what has been written as fact.
Ernest HemingwayNick drank the coffee, the coffee according to Hopkins. The coffee was bitter. Nick laughed. It made a good ending to the story. His mind was starting to work. He knew he could choke it because he was tired enough. He spilled the coffee out of the pot and shook the grounds loose into the fire. He lit a cigarette and went inside the tent. He took off his shoes and trousers, sitting on the blankets, rolled the shoes up inside the trousers for a pillow and got in between the blankets.
Out through the front of the tent he watched the glow of the fire when the night wind blew on it. It was a quiet night. The swamp was perfectly quiet. Nick stretched under the blanket comfortably. A mosquito hummed close to his ear. Nick sat up and lit a match. The mosquito was on the canvas, over his head. Nick moved the match quickly up to it. The mosquito made a satisfactory hiss in the flame. The match went out. Nick lay down again under the blankets. He turned on his side and shut his eyes. He was sleepy. He felt sleep coming. He curled up under the blanket and went to sleep.
Tag: sleep coffee bliss big-two-hearted-river
The author must write what he has to say, not speak it.
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