Saturday, July 16, 2016

"I've seen you, beauty, and you belong to me now, whoever you are waiting for and if I never
see you again, I thought. You belong to me and all Paris belongs to me and I belong to this
notebook and this pencil.

Then I went back to writing and I entered far into the story and was lost in it. I was writing it now
and it was not writing itself and I did not look up nor know anything about this time nor think 
where I was nor order any more rum St. James...Then the story was finished and I was 
very tired. I read the last paragraph and then I looked up and looked for the girl and 
she had gone. I hope she's gone with a good man, I thought.
But I felt sad...

After writing a story I was always empty and both sad and happy, 
as though I had made love, and I was sure this was
a very good story although I would not know
truly how good until I read it over
the next day...

away from Paris
I could write about Paris
as in Paris I could write about

-A Moveable Feast // Ernest Hemingway

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