Quote

I hope something happens. I'm restless as the devil and have a horror of getting fat or falling in love and growing domestic.

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
Hope
Restless
Fall
Domestic
Happens
Fats
Something
Falling
Love
Horror
Devil
Growing
Getting

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But I suppose you must touch life in order to spring from it.
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This is what I think now: that the natural state of the sentient adult is a qualified unhappiness.
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I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart.
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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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he was figuratively following along beside her as she walked the fence, ready to catch her if she should fall.
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Long ago, there was something in me, but now that thing is gone. Now that thing is gone, that thing is gone. I cannot cry. I cannot care. That thing will come back no more.
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But you can love more than just one person, can't you?
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People disappeared, reappeared, made plans to go somewhere, and then lost each other, searched for each other, found each other a few feet away.
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I like France, where everybody thinks he's Napoleon--down here everybody thinks he's Christ.
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but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game
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She smiled at him, making sure that the smile gathered up everything inside her and directed it toward him, making him a profound promise of herself for so little, for the beat of a response, the assurance of a complimentary vibration in him.
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Beautiful things grow to a certain height and then they fail and fade off, breathing out memories as they decay.
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The sign of intelligence is the ability to carry opposed thoughts at the same time.
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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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I don’t want just words. If that’s all you have for me, you’d better go
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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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The exhilarating ripple of her voice was a wild tonic in the rain.
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If that was true he must have felt that he had lost the old warm world, paid a high price for living too long with a single dream.
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