Nobody ever lives their life all the way up except bull-fighters.
It is awfully easy to be hard-boiled about everything in the daytime, but at night it is another thing.
Going to another country doesn't make any difference. I've tried all that. You can't get away from yourself by moving from one place to another.
We all ought to make sacrifices for literature. Look at me. I'm going to England without a protest. All for literature.
This wine is too good for toast-drinking, my dear. You don't want to mix emotions up with a wine like that. You lose the taste.
You know it makes one feel rather good deciding not to be a bitch. It's sort of what we have instead of God.
Enjoying living was learning to get your money's worth and knowing when you had it.
All right. Have it your own way. Road to hell paved with unbought stuffed dogs. Not my fault.
In bull-fighting they speak of the terrain of the bull and the terrain of the bull-fighter. As long as a bull-fighter stays in his own terrain he is comparatively safe. Each time he enters into the terrain of the bull he is in great danger.
The crowd was the boys, the dancers, and the drunks. Romero turned and tried to get through the crowd. They were all around him trying to lift him and put him on their shoulders. He fought and twisted away, and started running, in the midst of them, toward the exit. He did not want to be carried on people's shoulders. But they held him and lifted him. It was uncomfortable and his legs were spraddled and his body was very sore. They were lifting him and all running toward the gate. He had his hand on somebody's shoulder. He looked around at us apologetically. The crowd, running, went out the gate with him.
Nobody ever knows anything.
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