From The Green Hills of Africa:
But it is not pleasant to have a time limit... It is not the way hunting should be. It is too much like those boys who used to be sent to Paris with two years in which to make good as writers or painters after which if they had not made good, they could go home and into their fathers' business. The way to hunt is for as long as you live against as long as there is such and such an animal; just as the way to paint is as long as there is you and colors and canvas, and to write as long as you can live and there is pencil and paper or ink or any machine to do it with, or anything you care to write about, and you feel a fool, and you are a fool, to do it any other way.
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He was an opinionated bastard. He liked to make those kinds of judgements. And he was so damn honest, he felt he had to live up to them. That's why he drank. That's why he killed himself. But it's also why he wrote such a book as "For Whom the Bell Tolls," which is very, very fine.
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