It's silly not to hope. It's a sin he thought.

Now Catherine would die. That was what you did. You died. You did not know what it was about. You never had 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.

I had seen nothing sacred, and the things that were glorious had no glory and the sacrifices were like the stockyards at Chicago if nothing was done with the meat except to bury it.

Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintry light.

Don't get discouraged because there's a lot of mechanical work to writing. I rewrote the first part of Farewell to Arms at least fifty times.

How lazily the sun goes down in Granada, it hides beneath the water, it conceals in the Alhambra!

The world was not wheeling anymore. It was just very clear and bright and inclined to blur at the edges.