Though there is one part of writing that is solid and you do it no harm by talking about it, the other is fragile, and if you talk about it, the structure cracks and you have nothing.

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-creased scars from handling heavy fish on the cords. But none of these scars were fresh. They were as old as erosions in a fishless desert.

The most beautiful fighting machine I have ever seen

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

Nobody ever lives their life all the way up except bullfighters.

Do not think about sin, he thought. There are enough problems now without sin. Also I have no understanding of it.

It's none of their business that you have to learn how to write. Let them think you were born that way.