For everything Hemingway ever wrote, writing is simply a form of intellectual excrement.
As we imbibe the world around us through our eyes, it passes through the bowels of our brain, and pours out of us back into the world in the form of mental manure.
In this respect, philosophy, religion, and all quests for "truth," are simply different forms of mental masturbation, resulting in an ejaculation of endorphins which continually baptize the writer’s brain, and which not only makes him feel like a god by spilling the blood of every idea he has and beating it to a pulp - ideas he wears like a crown of thorns - but which allows him to deflower an endless procession of empty pages like so many Mohammedan virgins, and all to stroke his own ego through the priapism of his pen.
Perhaps this is why the page always wears white and the writer feels he is married to nothing so much was his own ideas.
As we imbibe the world around us through our eyes, it passes through the bowels of our brain, and pours out of us back into the world in the form of mental manure.
In this respect, philosophy, religion, and all quests for "truth," are simply different forms of mental masturbation, resulting in an ejaculation of endorphins which continually baptize the writer’s brain, and which not only makes him feel like a god by spilling the blood of every idea he has and beating it to a pulp - ideas he wears like a crown of thorns - but which allows him to deflower an endless procession of empty pages like so many Mohammedan virgins, and all to stroke his own ego through the priapism of his pen.
Perhaps this is why the page always wears white and the writer feels he is married to nothing so much was his own ideas.
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