(no subject)
He thought about alone in constantinople that time, having quarrelled in paris before he had gone out. He had whored the whole time and then, when it was over, he had failed to kill his loneliness, but only made it worse, he had written to her, the first one, the one who had left him, a letter telling her how he had never been able to kill it... How when he thought he saw her outside the Regence one time, it had made him go all faint and sick inside, and that he would follow a woman who looked like her in some way, along the Boulevard, afraid to see it was not she, afraid to lose the feeling it gave him. How everyone he had slept with had only made him miss her more. How what she had done could never matter as he knew he could not cure himself of loving her. He wrote this letter at the Club, cold sober, and mailed it to New York asking her to write him at the office in Paris. That seemed safe. And that night missing her so much it made him feel hollow sick inside, he wandered up past Taxim's, picked a girl up and took her out to supper. He had gone to a place to dance with her afterwards, she danced badly, and left her for a hot Armenian slut, that swung her belly against him so that it almost scalded.
Ernest Hemmingway, the snows of Kilimanjaro. Sums it up, beautifully.
Ernest Hemmingway, the snows of Kilimanjaro. Sums it up, beautifully.