I'm not a writer. Ernest Hemingway was a writer. I just have a vivid imagination and type 90 WPM.
If I walked down by different streets to the Jardin du Luxembourg in the afternoon I could walk through the gardens and then go to the Musée du Luxembourg where the great paintings were that have now...
Dying was nothing and he had no picture of it nor fear of it in his mind. But living was a field of grain blowing in the wind on the side of a hill. Living was a hawk in the sky. Living was an earthen...
Millay sonnets sound like a lecherous cat.
We only knew then that there was always the war, but that we were not going to it anymore.
He began as a minor imitator of Fitzgerald, wrote a novel in the late twenties which won a prize, became dissatisfied with his work, stopped writing for a period of years. When he came back it was to...
I write one page of masterpiece to ninety-one pages of shit. I try to put the shit in the wastebasket.
He said we were all cooked but we were all right as long as we did not know it. We were all cooked. The thing was not to recognize it. The last country to realize they were cooked would win the war.
This was the greatest gift that he had, the talent that fitted him for war; that ability not to ignore but to despise whatever bad ending there could be. This quality was destroyed by too much respons...
She wanted to know what American writers I liked. Hawthorne, Henry James, Emily Dickinson… No, living. Ah, well, hmm, let's see: how difficult, the rival factor being what it is, for a contemporary au...
Why, darling, I don't live at all when I'm not with you.