In life I am mildly obsessed with Hemingway (who I also credit for my second obsession of Paris and everything French). Today is his birthday and I celebrate by drinking one of his favorite drinks (Whisky and Soda) and re-reading some of my favorite passages from his book, A Moveable Feast. Here's one where he talks about his dear friend F. Scott Fitzgerald:
His Talent was as natural as the pattern that was made by the dust on a butterfly's wings. At one time he understood it no more than the butterfly did and he did not know when it was brushed or marred. Later he became conscious of his damaged wings and of their construction and he learned to think and could not fly any more because the love of flight was gone and he could only remember when it had been effortless.Not a single word that doesn't belong; just honesty and beauty. This is how I feel about all his books and stories. And when I make my attempts at writing, I try to remember his advice to only "write the truest sentence you know" because the rest is usually always crap.
Here's to the the most interesting man in my books. Happy 115th birthday dear Sir!