Great Throughts Treasury

"Everyone behaves badly--given the chance."

"Everyone needs to talk to someone, the woman said. Before we had religion and other nonsense. Now for every one there should be someone to whom one can speak frankly, for all the valor that one could have one becomes very alone."

"Everything about him was old except his eyes and they were the same color as the sea and were cheerful and undefeated."

"Everything kills everything else in some way."

"Everything you have is to give. Thou art a phenomenon of philosophy and an unfortunate man."

"Ezra was right half the time, and when he was wrong, he was so wrong you were never in any doubt about it."

"Fear of death increases in exact proportion to increase in wealth."

"Finishing is what you have to do. If you don't finish, nothing is worth a damn."

"Fish, he said softly, aloud, I'll stay with you until I am dead."

"Fish, he said, I love you and respect you very much. But I will kill you dead before this day ends."

"Fish, the old man said. Fish, you are going to have to die anyway. Do you have to kill me too?"

"For a long time now I have tried simply to write the best I can. Sometimes I have good luck and write better than I can."

"For a poet he threw a very accurate milk bottle."

"For a true writer each book should be a new beginning where he tries again for something that is beyond attainment. He should always try for something that has never been done or that others have tried and failed. Then sometimes, with great luck, he will succeed."

"For a war to be just three conditions are necessary - public authority, just cause, right motive."

"For a writer to put his own intellectual musings, which he might sell for a low price as essays, into the mouths of artificially constructed characters which are more remunerative when issued as people in a novel is good economics, perhaps, but does not make literature."

"For all the poor in the world against all tyranny."

"For God sake write and don't worry about what the boys will say nor whether it will be a masterpiece nor what. I write one page of masterpiece to ninety one pages of shit. I try to put the shit in the wastebasket."

"For her everything was red, orange, gold-red from the sun on the closed eyes, and it all was that color, all of it, the filling, the possessing, the having, all of that color, all in a blindness of that color."

"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."

"For luck you carried a horse chestnut and a rabbitÂ’s foot in your right pocket. The fur had been worn off the rabbitÂ’s foot long ago and the bones and the sinews were polished by the wear. The claws scratched in the lining of your pocket and you knew your luck was still there."

"For one person who likes Spain there are a dozen who prefer books on her."

"For part of it is the smell that comes when, on a ship, there is a storm and the portholes are closed up. Put your nose against the brass handle of a screwed-tight porthole on a rolling ship that is swaying under you so that you are faint and hollow in the stomach and you have a part of that smellÂ… After that of the ship you must go down the hill in Madrid to the Puente de Toldedo early in the morning to the matadero and stand there on the wet paving when there is a fog from the Manzanares and wait for the old women who go before daylight to drink the blood of the beasts that are slaughtered. When such an old woman comes out of the matadero, holding her shawl around her, with her face gray and her eyes hollow, and the whiskers of age on her chin, and on her cheeks, set in the waxen white of her face as the sprouts grow from the seed of a bean, not bristles, but pale sprouts in the death of her face; put your arms tight around her Ingles, and hold her to you and kiss her on the mouth and you will know the second part that odor is made ofÂ… Kiss one, Pilar said. Kiss one, Ingles, for thy knowledgeÂ’s sake and then, with this in thy nostrils, walk back up into the city and when thous seest a refuse pail with dead flowers [chrysanthemums] in it plunge thy nose deep into it and inhale so that scent mixes with those thou hast already in thy nasal passagesÂ… Then, Pilar went on, it is important that the day be in the autumn with rain, or at least some fog, or early winter even and now thou shouldst continue to walk through the city and down the Called de Salud smelling what thou wilt smell where they are sweeping out the casas de putas and emptying the slop jars into the drains and, with this odor of loveÂ’s labor lost mixed sweetly with soapy water and cigarette butts only faintly reaching thy nostrils, thou shouldst go on to the Jardin Botanico where at night those girls who can no longer work in the houses do their work against the iron gates of the park and the iron picketed fences and upon the sidewalks. It is there in the shadow of the trees against the iron railing that they will perform all that a man wishes; from the simplest requests at a remuneration of ten centimos up to a peseta for that great act that we are born to and there, on a dead flower bed that has not yet been plucked out and replanted, and so serves to soften the earth that is so much softer than the sidewalk, thou wilt find an abandoned gunny sack with the odor of the wet earth, the dead flowers, and the doings of that night. In this sack will be contained the essence of it all, both the dead earth and the dead stalks of the flowers and their rotted blooms and the smell that is both the death and birth of man. Thou wild wrap this sack around thy head and try to breathe through it. No. Yes, Pilar said. Thou wilt wrap this sack around thy head and try to breath and then, if thou hast not lost any of the previous odors, when thou inhalest deeply, thou wilt smell the odor of death-to-come as we know it."

"For sale. Baby shoes. Never worn."

"For this, that now was coming, he had very little curiosity. For years it had obsessed him; but now it meant nothing in itself. It was strange how easy being tired enough made it. Now he would never write the things he had saved to write, until he knew enough to write them well."

"For three years I looked forward very childishly to the war ending at Christmas. But now I look forward till when our son will be a lieutenant commander."

"For we have thought the longer thoughts and gone the shorter way. And we have danced to devils' tunes, Shivering home to pray; to serve one master in the night, another in the day."

"For what are we born if not to aid one another?"

"Forget your personal tragedy. We are all bitched from the start and you especially have to hurt like hell before you can write seriously. But when you get the damned hurt use it—don't cheat with it. Be as faithful to it as a scientist—but don't think anything is of any importance because it happens to you or anyone belonging to you."

"From things that have happened and from things as they exist and from all things that you know and all those you cannot know, you make something through your invention that is not a representation but a whole new thing truer than anything true and alive, and you make it alive, and if you make it well enough you give it immortality. That is why you write and for no other reason that you know of. But what about all the reasons that no one knows?"

"Get it straight. Your boy you lose. Love you lose. Honor has been gone for a long time. Duty you do."

"God knows I didn't mean to fall in love with her"

"God knows, people who are paid to have attitudes toward things, professional critics, make me sick; camp-following eunuchs of literature. They won't even whore. They're all virtuous and sterile. And how well meaning and high minded. But they're all camp-followers."

"Going to another country doesnÂ’t make any difference. IÂ’ve tried all that. You canÂ’t get away from yourself by moving from one place to another. ThereÂ’s nothing to that."

"Good writing is good conversation, only more so."

"Got tight on absinthe last night. Did knife tricks."

"Grace under pressure."

"Hail nothing full of nothing, nothing is with thee."

"Half fish, he said. Fish that you were. I am sorry that I went too far out. I ruined us both. But we have killed many sharks, you and I, and ruined many others. How many did you ever kill, old fish? You do not have that spear on your head for nothing."

"Happiness is often presented as being very dull but, he thought, lying awake, that is because dull people are sometimes very happy and intelligent people can and do go around making themselves and everyone else miserable. He had never found happiness dull. It always seemed more exciting than any other thing and capable of as great intensity as sorrow to those people who were capable of having it."

"Have faith in the Yankees my son. Think of the great DiMaggio."

"Having books published is very destructive to writing. It is even worse than making love too much. Because when you make love too much at least you get a damned clarte that is like no other light. A very clear and hollow light."

"He always thought of the sea as 'la mar' which is what people call her in Spanish when they love her. Sometimes those who love her say bad things of her but they are always said as though she were a woman. Some of the younger fishermen, those who used buoys as floats for their lines and had motorboats, bought when the shark livers had brought much money, spoke of her as 'el mar' which is masculine. They spoke of her as a contestant or a place or even an enemy. But the old man always thought of her as feminine and as something that gave or withheld great favors, and if she did wild or wicked things it was because she could not help them. The moon affects her as it does a woman, he thought."

"He bowed at the dark, straightened, tossed his hat over his shoulder, and, carrying the muleta in his left hand and the sword in his right, walked out toward the bull."

"He could beat anything, he thought, because nothing could hurt him if he did not care."

"He did not care for the lying at first. He hated it. Then later he had come to like it. It was part of being an insider but it was a very corrupting business."

"He felt as though he were hailing a ship."

"He had always known what I did not know and what, when I learned it, I was always able to forget. But I did not know that then, although I learned it later."

"He had been contemptuous of those who wrecked. You did not have to like it because you understood it. He could beat anything, he thought, because nothing could hurt him if he did not care. All right. Now he would not care for death. One thing he had always dreaded was the pain. He could stand pain as well as any man, until it went on too long, and wore him out, but here he had something that had hurt frightfully and just when he had felt it breaking him, the pain had stopped."

"He had had his life and it was over and then he went on living it again with different people and more money, with the best of the same places, and some new ones. You kept from thinking and it was all marvelous. You were equipped with good insides so that you did not go to pieces that way, the way most of them had, and you made an attitude that you cared nothing for the work you used to do, now that you could no longer do it."