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What'll we do with ourselves this afternoon? And the day after that, and the next thirty years?

F. Scott Fitzgerald

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F. Scott Fitzgerald
Age: 43 †
Born: 1897
Born: September 24
Died: 1940
Died: December 21
Author
Novelist
Screenwriter
Short Story Writer
Writer
St Paul
Minnesota
Francis Scott Fitzgerald
Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald
Afternoon
Thirty
Next
Years

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You are mine-you know you're mine! he cried wildly...the moonlight twisted in through the vines and listened...the fireflies hung upon their whispers as if to win his glance from the glory of their eyes.
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Baltimore is warm but pleasant... I belong here, where everything is civilized and gay and rotted and polite.
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Shakespeare--whetting, frustrating, surprising and gratifying.
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In a real dark night of the soul, it is always three o'clock in the morning, day after day.
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So we drove on toward death through the cooling twilight.
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Even when everything seems rotten you can't trust that judgment. It's the sum of all your judgments that counts.
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The ability to hold two competing thoughts in one's mind and still be able to function is the mark of a superior mind
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that voice was a deathless song.
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When the first-rate author wants an exquisite heroine or a lovely morning, he finds that all the superlatives have been worn shoddy by his inferiors. It should be a rule that bad writers must start with plain heroines and ordinary mornings, and, if they are able, work up to something better.
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I suppose books mean more than people to me anyway
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Her grey, sun-strained eyes stared straight ahead, but she had deliberately shifted our relations, and for a moment I thought I loved her. But I am slow-thinking and full of interior rules that act as brakes on my desires, and I knew that first I had to get myself definitely out of that tangle back home.
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A new generation dedicated more than the last to the fear of poverty and the worship of success grown up to find all Gods dead, all wars fought, all faiths in man shaken...
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It was only a sunny smile, and little it cost in the giving, but like morning light it scattered the night and made the day worth living.
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Daisy began to sing with the music in a husky, rhythmic whisper, bringing out a meaning in each word that it had never had before and would never have again. When the melody rose, her voice broke up sweetly, following it, in a way contralto voices have, and each change tipped out a little of her warm human magic upon the air.
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I don't like girls in the daytime,' he said shortly, and then thinking this a bit abrupt, he added: 'But I like you.' He cleared his throat. 'I like you first and second and third.
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No such thing as a man willing to be honest - that would be like a blind man willing to see.
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He hadn’t once ceased looking at Daisy, and I think he revalued everything in his house according to the measure of response it drew from her well-loved eyes. Sometimes, too, he stared around at his possessions in a dazed way, as though in her actual and astounding presence none of it was any longer real.
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An artist is someone who can hold two opposing viewpoints and still remain fully functional.
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I love this simply because it's cute, and I guess it's a sign of the times in many respect. It's pretty much saying you complete me, only in the sweetest way possible.
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The lights grow brighter as the earth lurches away from the sun.
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