My only regret in life is that I did not drink more wine.

Now he was proving it again. Each time was a new time and he never thought about the past when he was doing it.

For him it was a dark passage which led to nowhere, then to nowhere, then again to nowhere, once again to nowhere, always and forever to nowhere, heavy on the elbows in the earth to nowhere, dark, never any end to nowhere, hung on all time always to unknowing nowhere, this time and again for always to nowhere, now not to be borne once again always and to nowhere, now beyond all bearing up, up, up and into nowhere, suddenly, scaldingly, holdingly all nowhere gone and time absolutely still and they were both there, time having stopped and he felt the earth move out and away from under them.

As to Hemingway, I read him for the first time in the early 'forties, something about bells, balls and bulls, and loathed it.

Man is not made for defeat.

To hell with the Church when it becomes a State and the hell with the State when it becomes a Church.

But Paris was a very old city and we were young and nothing was simple there, not even poverty, nor sudden money, nor the moonlight, nor right and wrong nor the breathing of someone who lay beside you in the moonlight.