To Have and Have Not

At pier four there is a 34-foot yawl-rigged yacht with two of the three hundred and twenty-four Esthonians who are sailing around in different parts of the world, in boats between 28 and 36 feet long and sending back articles to the Esthonian newspapers. These articles are very popular in Esthonia and bring their authors between a dollar and a dollar and thirty cents a column. They take the place occupied by the baseball or football news in American newspapers and are run under the heading of Sagas of Our Intrepid Voyagers. No well-run yacht basin in Southern waters is complete without at least two sunburned, salt bleached-headed Esthonians who are waiting for a check from their last article. When it comes they will sail to another yacht basin and write another saga. They are very happy too. Almost as happy as the people on the Alzira III. It’s great to be an Intrepid Voyager.

But in the Gulf you got time. And I'm figuring all the time. I've got to think right all the time. I can't make a mistake. Not a mistake. Not once. Well, I got something to think about now all right. Something to do and something to think about besides wondering what the hell's going to happen. Besides wondering what's going to happen to the whole damn thing.

But why must all the operations in life be performed without an anesthetic?

Cdo gjë mund të kalohet në këtë botë të mallkuar. Ndrydhi të gjitha ndjenjat, vdis nga brenda dhe cdo gjë do të kaloj lehtë. Vdis për së gjalli, ashtu sic bëjnë më të shumtët e njerëzve, në të shumtën e kohës. Besoj se kjo është rruga më e mire.

Death is like an old whore in a bar--I'll buy her a drink but I won't go upstairs with her

Harry looked at him and you could see the murder come in his face. ... Harry didn't say anything, but you could see the killing go out of his face and his eyes came open natural again.

He was mad and plenty brave.

I don't know who made the laws; But I know there ain't no law that you got to go hungry.

I don't want to fool with it but what choice have I got? They don't give you any choice now. I can let it go; but what will the next thing be? I didn't ask for any of this and if you've got to do it you've got to do it.

In every port in the world, at least two Estonians can be found.

I thought you'd be interested in these things as a government man. Ain't you mixed up in the prices of things we eat or something? Ain't that it? Making them more costly or something. Making the grits cost more and the grunts less?

It would be better alone, anything is better alone but I don't think I can handle it alone.

I wonder. Of course maybe that isn't what they figure to do. Maybe they aren't going to do any such thing. But it's natural that's what they would do and I heard that word.

Listen," I told him. "Don't be so tough so early in the morning. I'm sure you've cut plenty of people's throats. I haven't even had my coffee yet.

Love is all the dirty little tricks you taught me that you probably got out of some book.

Love was the greatest thing, wasn't it? Love was what we had that no one else had or could ever have? And you were a genius and I was your whole life. I was your partner and your little black flower. Slop. Love is just another dirty lie. Love is ergoapiol pills to make me come around because you were afraid to have a baby. Love is quinine and quinine and quinine until I'm deaf with it. Love is that aborting horror you took me to. Love is my insides all messed up. It's half catheters and half whirling douches. I know about love. Love always hangs up behind the bathroom door. It smells like lysol. To hell with love. Love is you making me happy and then going off to sleep with your mouth open while I lie awake all night afraid to say my prayers even because I know I have no right to say anymore. Love is all the dirty little tricks you taught me that you probably got out of some book. All right. I'm through with you and I'm through with love. Your kind of picknose love. You writer.

my family's going to eat as long as anybody eats. What they're trying to do is starve you Conchs out of here so they can burn down the shacks and put up apartments and make this a tourist town. That's what I hear. I hear they're buying up lots, and then after the poor people are starved out and gone somewhere else to starve some more they're going to come in and make it into a beauty spot for tourists.

Only suckers worry. But he can knock the worry if he takes a Scotch and soda. The hell with what the doctor says. So he rings for one and the steward comes sleepily, and as he drinks it, the speculator is not a sucker now; except for death.

Poor goddamned rummies,' Marie said. 'I pity a rummy.'
'He's a lucky rummy.'
'There ain't any lucky rummies,' Marie said. 'You know that, Harry.'
'No,' I said. 'I guess there aren't.

Ryszard Gordon nic nie powiedzia?. Poczu? pustk? w miejscu, gdzie mia? przedtem serce, i wszystko, co mówi? lub co ona do niego mówi?a, by?o jakby fragmentem pods?uchanej rozmowy.

Some made the long drop from the apartment or the office window; some took it quietly in two-car garages with the motor running; some used the native tradition of the Colt or Smith and Wesson; those well-constructed implements that end insomnia, terminate remorse, cure cancer, avoid bankruptcy, and blast an exit from intolerable positions by the pressure of a finger; those admirable American instruments so easily carried, so sure of effect, so well designed to end the American dream when it becomes a nightmare, their only drawback the mess they leave for relatives to clean up.

The hell with my arm. You lose an arm you lose an arm. There's worse things than lose an arm. You've got two arms and you've got two of something else. And a man's still a man with one arm or with one of those. The hell with it,' he says. . . .after a minute he says, 'I got those other two still.

The moon was up now and the trees were dark against it, and he passed the frame houses with their narrow yards, light coming from the shuttered windows; the unpaved alleys, with their double rows of houses; Conch town, where all was starched, well-shuttered, virtue, failure, grit and boiled grunts, under-nourishment, prejudice, righteousness, inter-breeding and the comforts of religion; the open-doored, lighted Cuban boilto houses, shacks whose only romance was their names

You know I'm no squealer, Harry.'
'You're a rummy. But no matter how rum dumb you get, if you ever talk about that, I promise you.'
'I'm a good man,' he said. 'You oughtn't to talk to me like that.'
'They can't make it fast enough to keep you a good man,' I told him. But I didn't worry about him any more because who was going to believe him?