Every man's life ends the same way. It is only the details of how he lived and how he died that distinguish one man from another.
He would lie in the bed and finally, with daylight, he would go to sleep. After all, he said to himself, it is probably only insomnia. Many must have it.
I did not care what it was all about. All I wanted to know was how to live in it. Maybe if you found out how to live in it you learned from that what is was all about.
If the others heard me talking out loud they would think that I am crazy. But since I am not, I do not care.
If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.
It is awfully easy to be hard-boiled about everything in the daytime, but at night it is another thing.
It is good that we do not have to try to kill the sun or the moon or the stars. It is enough to live on the sea and kill our true brothers.
So far, about morals, I know only that what is moral is what you feel good after and what is immoral is what you feel bad after.
The real reason for not committing suicide is because you always know how swell life gets again after the hell is over.
There is no rule on how to write. Sometimes it comes easily and perfectly; sometimes it's like drilling rock and then blasting it out with charges.
They say the seeds of what we will do are in all of us, but it always seemed to me that in those who make jokes in life the seeds are covered with better soil and with a higher grade of manure.
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