Ernest Hemingway’s writing is the greatest creative joy I have ever found. I am sure many will disagree with me, but I really don’t care. Every once in a while I have to read Movable Feast just to remember why I ever decided to write books. I will never duplicate his genius, but it is good to sit with the gods every once in a while and just feel good. If you loth long rambling sentences, don’t read the following. If you want to once more fall in love with the written word, then this is for you.
All of the sadness of the city came suddenly with the first cold rains of winter, and there were no more tops to the high white houses as you walked but only the wet blackness of the street and the closed doors of the small shops, the herb sellers, the stationery and the newspaper shops, the midwife – second class – and the hotel where Verlaine had died, where I had a room on the top floor where I worked.
Don’t easily admit it, but I think I just had an orgasm.
Any positive thought are welcome.