If a writer of prose knows enough about what he is writing about he may omit things that he knows, and the reader, if the writer is writing truly enough, will have a feeling of those things as strongly as though the writer had stated them. The dignity of movement of an iceberg is due to only one-eighth of it being above water. A writer who omits things because he does not know them only makes hollow places in his writing. A writer who appreciates the seriousness of writing so little that he is anxious to make people see he is formally educated, cultured, or well-bred, is merely a popinjay. —Ernest Hemingway, Death in the Afternoon
Cubs Like White Elephants
I sat in my car last night and listened to the first two innings of the Cubs at Walgreens.
"Ian Desmond goes in standing with an RBI double. His third and fourth RBIs of the day against the rookie Chris Rusin."
"He just can't get ahead of any of these hitters."
"Here comes Dale Sveum."
I changed the radio to auxiliary mode and listened to Spotify.
I stared out the driver's side window. A bird flew overhead and disappeared behind the tree line.
"Let it go. This too shall pass."