Каждый год в тебе что-то умирает, когда с деревьев опадают листья, а голые ветки беззащитно качаются на ветру в холодном зимнем свете. Но ты знаешь, что весна обязательно придет, так же как ты уверен,...
You're my religion. You're all I've got.
You wouldn't believe it. It's like a wonderful nightmare.
You expected to be sad in the fall. Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintery light. But you knew there would a...
Where should we go?I don’t care. Anywhere you want. Anywhere we don’t know people.
When you start to live outside yourself, it's all dangerous.
When writing a novel a writer should create living people; people not characters. A character is a caricature. If a writer can make people live there may be no great characters in his book, but it is...
We never get anything. We are born with all we have and we never learn. We never get anything new. We all start complete.
Tolstoi made the writing of Stephen Crane on the Civil War seem like the brilliant imagining of a sick boy who had never seen war but had only read the battles and chronicles and seen the Brady
They are not sorrows, so much as terrible things.
There isn't any me. I'm you. Don't make up a separate me.
There is nothing you can do except try to write it the way that it was. So you must write each day better than you possibly can and use the sorrow that you have now to make you know how the early sorr...
There is nothing to writing.All you do is sit down a a typewriter and bleed.E. Hemmingway
The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places.
The two waiters inside the cafe knew that theo ld man was a little drunk, and while he was a good client they knew that if he became too drunk he would leave without paying, so they kept watch on him....
The town was very nice and our house was very fine. The river ran behind us and the town had been captured very handsomely but the mountains beyond it could not be taken and I was very glad the Austri...
The hell with my arm. You lose an arm you lose an arm. There's worse things than lose an arm. You've got two arms and you've got two of something else. And a man's still a man with one arm or with one...
The dentuso is cruel and able and strong and intelligent. But I was more intelligent than he was. Perhaps not, he thought. Perhaps I was only better armed.
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-cr...
The boy Paco had never known about any of this nor about what all these people would be doing on the next day and on other days to come. He had no idea how they really lived nor how they ended. He did...