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So we drove on toward death through the cooling twilight.
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
Toward
Death
Cooling
Drove
Twilight
More quotes by F. Scott Fitzgerald
Amory wondered how people could fail to notice that he was a boy marked for glory, and when faces of the throng turned toward him and ambiguous eyes stared into his, he assumed the most romantic of expressions and walked on the air cushions that lie on the asphalts of fourteen.
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Well, I can't describe her exactly-except to say that she was beautiful. She was-tremendously alive.
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Every act of life, from the morning toothbrush to the friend at dinner, became an effort. I hated the night when I couldn't sleep and I hated the day because it went toward night.
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The extraordinary thing is not that people in a lifetime turn out worse or better than we had prophesied particularly in America that is to be expected. The extraordinary thing is how people keep their levels, fulfill their promises, seem actually buoyed up by an inevitable destiny.
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I like people and I like them to like me, but I wear my heart where God put it, on the inside.
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He's sensitive and I don't want him to break his heart over somebody who doesn't care about him.
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Then I grew up, and the beauty of succulent illusions fell away from me.
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Most affectations conceal something eventually, even though they don't in the beginning.
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There's no beauty without poignancy and there's no poignancy without the feeling that it's going, men, names, books, houses--bound for dust--mortal--
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I want leisure to read—an immense amount.
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He talked a lot about the past and I gathered that he wanted to recover something, some idea of himself perhaps, that had gone into loving Daisy.
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Her philosophy is carpe diem for herself and laissez faire for others.
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What do you think of that? It’s stopped raining. I’m glad Jay. Her throat, full of aching, grieving beauty, told only of her unexpected joy.
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She was a faded but still lovely woman of twenty-seven.
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Can't repeat the past? he cried incredulously. Why of course you can! He looked around him wildly, as if the past were lurking here in the shadow of his house, just out of reach of his hand.
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One girl can be pretty - but a dozen are only a chorus.
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Now the standard cure for one who is sunk is to consider those in actual destitution or physical suffering
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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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Books are like brothers. I am an only child. Gatsby [is] my imaginary eldest brother.
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Then came the war, old sport. It was a great relief, and I tried very hard to die, but I seemed to bear an enchanted life.
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