[b]Ernest Hemingway
It is never hopeless. But sometimes I cannot hope. I try always to hope but sometimes I cannot.[/b]
Really, no rational human being doesn’t know that any number of things are hopeless.
When I had finished the book I knew that no matter what Scott did, nor how he behaved, I must know it was like a sickness and be of any help I could to him and try to be a good friend. He had many good, good friends, more than anyone I knew. But I enlisted as one more, whether I could be of any use to him or not. If he could write a book as fine as The Great Gatsby I was sure that he could write an even better one. I did not know Zelda yet, and so I did not know the terrible odds that were against him. But we were to find them out soon enough.
Well, some of them were.
Finishing is what you have to do. If you don’t finish, nothing is worth a damn.
Not counting all the things that never do seem to end.
No horse named Morbid ever won a race.
Anyone know if that’s still true?
I have watched them all day and they are the same men that we are. I believe that I could walk up to the mill and knock on the door and I would be welcome except that they have orders to challenge all travelers and ask to see their papers. It is only orders that come between us. Those men are not fascists. I call them so, but they are not. They are poor men as we are. They should never be fighting against us and I do not like to think of the killing.
We are all more or less pawns in one or another narrative. Though, if we are lucky, it will be one of our own.
He could beat anything, he thought, because no thing could hurt him if he did not care.
We think that, sure, but it hardly ever really is that.