Wednesday, March 9, 2011

The Entire World In Just Two Sentences

From Ernest Hemingway's For Whom the Bell Tolls

Then there was the smell of heather crushed and the roughness of the bent stalks under her head and the sun bright on her closed eyes and all his life he would remember the curve of her throat with her head pushed back into the heather roots and her lips that moved smally and by themselves and the fluttering of the lashes on the eyes tight closed against the sun and against everything, and 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. For him it was a dark passage which led to nowhere, then to nowhere, then again to nowhere, once again to nowhere, always and forever to nowhere, heavy on the elbows in the earth to nowhere, dark, never any end to nowhere, hung on all time always to unknowing nowhere, this time and again for always to nowhere, now not to be borne once again always and to nowhere, now beyond all bearing up, up, up and into nowhere, suddenly, scaldingly, holdingly all nowhere gone and time absolutely still and they were both there, time having stopped and he felt the earth move out and away from under them.

7 comments:

  1. Sigh. That is seriously freaking amazing what he pulls off in that. This makes me want to post one of my "run-ons" I did in college. I loved doing those things.

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  2. I've always loved that Hemingway.

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  3. Okay. All my writing is unremitting crap. Why do I even bother? Thanks a lot there, Scott.

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  4. Lois, that's entirely the wrong lesson to be learned here! This is just a reminder that language is a beautiful dance, and as long as you dance like you mean it, you should keep dancing. Or, you know, some other less-lame metaphor.

    All my writing is crap, compared to the books I read. That doesn't stop me from reading or writing.

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  5. Yes. I see the lesson you propose, but I get the other one all the same. I remind myself to keep at it. I am getting better all the time. I just have to be careful about reading people like Hemingway or Steinbeck, etc. When I do, I feel like a complete poser. Who the heck am I to think I can be an author? Still... It's important to read them to learn from the greats. Let's just say it's a fine line I walk or would that be read?

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