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I want leisure to read—an immense amount.
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
Leisure
Immense
Amount
Read
More quotes by F. Scott Fitzgerald
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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Forgotten is forgiven.
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When I'm with you, I don't breathe quite right.
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Life is progressive, no matter what our intentions.
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We can't possibly have a summer love. So many people have tried that the name's become proverbial. Summer is only the unfulfilled promise of spring, a charlatan in place of the warm balmy nights I dream of in April. It's a sad season of life without growth...It has no day.
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I avoided writers very carefully because they can perpetuate trouble as no one else can.
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Lie to me by the moonlight. Do a fabulous story.
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If you are strong enough, there are no precedents.
F. Scott Fitzgerald
We all have souls of different ages
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To the wingless a more interesting phenomenon is their (W/E Egg) dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size.
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Beauty is only to be admired, only to be loved - to be harvested carefully and then flung at a chosen lover like a gift of roses. It seems to me, so far as I can judge clearly at all, that my beauty would be used like that.
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Never miss a party...good for the nerves--like celery.
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I learned a little of beauty - enough to know that it had nothing to do with truth.
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I didn't realize it, but the days came along one after another, and then two years were gone, and everything was gone, and I was gone.
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No one should live beyond 30.
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France was a land, England was a people, but America, having about it still that quality of the idea, was harder to utter - it was the graves at Shiloh and the tired, drawn, nervous faces of its great men, and the country boys dying in the Argonne for a phrase that was empty before their bodies withered. It was a willingness of the heart.
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She confused him and hindered the flow of his ideas. Self-expression had never seemed at once so desirable and so impossible.
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And he could not tell why the struggle was worthwhile, why he had determined to use the utmost himself and his heritage from the personalities he had passed... He stretched out his arms to the crystalline, radiant sky. I know myself, he cried, But that is all.
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Amory: I love you. Rosalind: I love you- now.
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I just couldn't make the grade as a hack-that, like everything else, requires a certain practiced excellence.
F. Scott Fitzgerald
