Ernest Hemingway

“How do you feel, hand?” he asked the cramped hand that was almost as stiff as rigor mortis. “I’ll eat some more for you.”

I wish I could feed the fish, he thought. He is my brother. But I must kill him and keep strong to do it.

looked across the sea and knew how alone he was now.

He looked at the sky and saw the white cumulus built like friendly piles of ice cream and high above were the thin feathers of the cirrus against the high September sky.

He was comfortable but suffering, although he did not admit the suffering at all.

The thousand times that he had proved it meant nothing. Now he was proving it again. Each time was a new time and he never thought about the past when he was doing it.

Don’t think, old man, he said to himself, Rest gently now against the wood and think of nothing. He is working. Work as little as you can.

Once I could see quite well in the dark. Not in the absolute dark. But almost as a cat sees.

But his left hand had always been a traitor and would not do what he called on it to do and he did not trust it.

The sun will bake it out well now, he thought.