Ernest Hemingway, fully Ernest Miller Hemingway

Ernest
Hemingway, fully Ernest Miller Hemingway
1899
1961

American Novelist, Short-Story Writer and Journalist

Author Quotes

The only thing that could spoil a day was people.... People were always the limiters of happiness except for the very few that were as good as spring itself.

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

There is no hunting like the hunting of man, and those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it, never care for anything else thereafter.

There were many words that you could not stand to hear and finally only the names of places had dignity. Certain numbers were the same way and certain dates and these with the names of the places were all you could say and have them mean anything. Abstract words such as glory, honor, courage, or hallow were obscene beside the concrete names of villages, the numbers of roads, the names of rivers, the numbers of regiments and the dates.

This was a big storm and he might as well enjoy it. It was ruining everything, but you might as well enjoy it

Today is only one day in all the days that will ever be. But what will happen in all the other days that ever come can depend on what you do today. It's been that way all this year. It's been that way so many times. All of war is that way.

We have very primitive emotions. It's impossible not to be competitive. Spoils everything, though.

What narrower live for nor expanse hope.

When you love you wish to do things for. You wish to sacrifice for. You wish to serve.

Work could cure almost anything.

You bitch,' he said. 'You rich bitch. That's poetry. I'm full of poetry now. Rot and poetry. Rotten poetry.

You know youÂ’re writing well when youÂ’re throwing good stuff into the wastebasket.

YouÂ’re my religion. YouÂ’re all IÂ’ve got.

The only way to combat the murder that is war is to show the dirty combinations that make it and the criminals and swine that hope for it and the idiotic way they run it when they get it so that an honest man will distrust it as he would distrust a racket and refuse to be enslaved into it.

The writer must write what he has to say, not speak it.

There is no language so filthy as Spanish. There are words for all the vile words in English and there are other words and expressions that are used only in countries where blasphemy keeps pace with the austerity of religion.

There will always be people who say it does not exist because they cannot have it. But I tell you it is true and that you have it and that you are lucky even if you die tomorrow.

This was Brett that I had felt like crying about. Then I thought of her walking up the street and stepping into the car, as I had last seen her, and of course in a little while I felt like hell again. It is awfully easy to be hard-boiled about everything in the daytime, but at night is another thing.

Tonight, sent by the police, they come to serenade me. He laughed, then tapped his stomach.-I cannot laugh yet. As musicians they are fatal.

We in America should see that no man is ever given, no matter how gradually or how noble and excellent the man, the power to put this country into a war which is now being prepared and brought closer each day with all the pre-meditation of a long planned murder. For when you give power to an executive you do not know who will be filling that position when the time of crisis comes.

When I am working on a book or a story I write every morning as soon after first light as possible. There is no one to disturb you and it is cool or cold and you come to your work and warm as you write. You read what you have written and, as you always stop when you know what is going to happen next, you go on from there. You write until you come to a place where you still have your juice and know what will happen next and you stop and try to live through until the next day when you hit it again. You have started at six in the morning, say, and may go on until noon or be through before that. When you stop you are as empty, and at the same time never empty but filling, as when you have made love to someone you love. Nothing can hurt you, nothing can happen, nothing means anything until the next day when you do it again. It is the wait until the next day that is hard to get through.

When you stop doing things for fun you might as well be dead.

Work every day. No matter what has happened the day or night before, get up and bite on the nail.

You can wipe out your opponents. But if you do it unjustly you become eligible for being wiped out yourself.

You lose it if you talk about it.

Author Picture
First Name
Ernest
Last Name
Hemingway, fully Ernest Miller Hemingway
Birth Date
1899
Death Date
1961
Bio

American Novelist, Short-Story Writer and Journalist