If a writer knows enough about what he is writing about, he may omit things that he knows. The dignity of move... — Ernest Hemingway

If a writer knows enough about what he is writing about, he may omit things that he knows. The dignity of movement of an iceberg is due to only one ninth of it being above water.

Author: Ernest Hemingway

Insight: We often mistake fullness for depth. When we're nervous about whether we know enough, we tend to overstuff our words—explaining every detail, backstory, and feeling until the point drowns in itself. Hemingway is saying something counterintuitive: the mark of real mastery is knowing when to leave things out. The power lives in what's beneath the surface, in the weight of what you're not saying. This matters not just for writing. Think about a good friend who can tell you she's tired and somehow you feel the entire weight of her week. Or a photo that moves you without needing a caption explaining what matters about it. The restraint itself becomes the signal. When you genuinely understand something—really know it—you don't need to prove it by saying everything. You can be selective, even mysterious, and somehow it lands harder. The tricky part is resisting the urge to perform your knowledge. It feels risky to leave gaps. But those gaps are exactly where people lean in, where they complete the picture themselves and feel something real. The iceberg works because most of the structure is hidden. Remove the underwater part and you've just got a small block of ice.

Source: Death in the Afternoon, 1932