Собрание сочинений в пяти томах. Том 3. Пятая колонна. По ком звонит колокол. Рассказы. Очерки. Речи

"What kind of country is this where it snows when it is almost June?" the soldier who was sitting on the bunk said.
"It is a phenomenon," the corporal said.
"We are in the moon of May," the soldier who was cooking said. "The moon of May has not yet terminated."
"What kind of a country is it where it snows in May?" the soldier on the bunk insisted.

— Где он теперь?
— Умер в апреле.
— И этот тоже, — мрачно сказал Пабло. — Все мы так кончим.
— Так все люди кончают, — сказал Ансельмо. — И всегда так кончали. Что это с тобой, приятель? Что это на тебя нашло?

How would that premise stand up if he examined it? That was probably why the Communists were always cracking down on Bohemianism. When you were drunk or when you committed either fornication or adultery you recognized your own personal fallibility of that so mutable substitute for the apostles' creed, the party line. Down with Bohemianism, the sin of Mayakovsky.
But Mayakovsky was a saint again. That was because he was safely dead. You'll be safely dead yourself, he told himself.

Pablo and Prieto had about an equal faith in the ultimate victory. They all had the politics of horse thieves. He believed in the Republic as a form of government but the Republic would have to get rid of all of that bunch of horse thieves that brought it to the pass it was in when the rebellion started. Was there ever a people whose leaders were as truly their enemies as this one?

And I have made a mistake, Robert Jordan thought to himself. I have told Spaniards we can do something better than they can when the rule is never to speak of your own exploits or abilities. When I should have flattered them I have told them what I think they should do and now they are furious.

"The melon of Castile is better," Fernando said.
"Que va," said the woman of Pablo. "The melon of Castile is for self abuse. The melon of Valencia for eating.

<... > все твое имущество – это ветер, солнце да пустое брюхо. Да и ветер сейчас слабый, подумал он, и солнца нет.

Она снова, на этот раз смущенно, пригладила свои густые короткие волосы, по которым, словно по полю пшеницы на склоне холма на ветру, пробежала мелкая зыбь.

С наступлением темноты всегда приходило чувство одиночества, а сегодня оно было таким острым, что внутри образовалась пустота, вроде как от голода.