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FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS

by: Ernest Hemingway


I am an old man who will live until I die.

I am no romantic glorifier of the Spanish woman, nor did I ever think of a casual piece as anything much other than a casual piece in any country. But when I am with Maria I love her so that I feel, literally. as though I would die and I never believed in that or thought that it could happen.

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.

I would always rather not know. Then, no matter what can happen, it was not me that talked.

You are instruments to do your duty. There are necessary orders that are no fault of yours and there is a bridge and that bridge can be the point on which the future of the human race can turn. As it can on everything that happens in this war. You have only one thing to do and you must do it.

If every one said orders were impossible to carry out when they were recieved where would you be? Where would we all be if you just said, "Impossible," when orders came?

In politics ... the first thing is to continue to exist.

If you have not seen the day of Revolution in a small town where all know all in the town and always have known all, you have seen nothing.

It was easier to live under a regime than fight it.

There is only now and if now is only two days, then two days is your life and everything in it will be in proportion. This is how you live a life in two days. And if you stop complaining and asking for what you will never get, you will have a good life.

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.

In war, one cannot say what one feels.

It is the shift from deadliness to normal family life that is the strangest.

Living was a hawk in the sky. Living was an earthen jar of water in the dust of the threshing with the grain flailed out and the chaff blowing. Living was a horse between your legs and a carbine under one leg and a hill and a valley and a stream with trees along it and the far side of the valley and the hills beyond.

How little we know of what there is to know.

I suppose if a man has something once, always something of it remains.

There is a great inertia about all military operations of any size. But once this inertia has been overcome and underway they are almost as hard to arrest as to initiate.

The world is a fine place and worth fighting for and I hate very much to leave it.

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