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05 February 2008 @ 01:41 am
Hemingway, dearest.  
I closed up the story in the notebook and put it in my inside pocket and asked the waiter for a dozen portugaises and a half-carafe of the dry white wine that they had there. 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.

As I ate the oysters with their strong taste of the sea and their faint metallic taste that the cold white wine washed away, leaving only the sea taste and the succulent texture, and as I drank their cold liquid from each shell and washed it down with the crisp taste of the wine, I lost the empty feeling and began to be happy and to make plans.

I love how in this book he chooses to ramble about simple things like his small thoughts and everyday happenings. Soon, it becomes less of a story and more of an intimate conversation.