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The mouth was wide open and ripped at the corners, as though she had choked a little in giving up the tremendous vitality she had stored so long.
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
Though
Ripped
Littles
Vitality
Little
Tremendous
Giving
Corners
Long
Mouth
Mouths
Wide
Choked
Open
Stored
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The Montana sunset lay between the mountains like a giant bruise from which darkened arteries spread across a poisoned sky.
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The helpless ecstasy of loosing himself in her charm was a powerful opiate rather than a tonic.
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If you have anything to say, anything you feel nobody has ever said before, you have got to feel it so desperately that you will find some way to say it that nobody has ever found before, so that the thing you have to say and the way of saying it blend as one matter--as indissolubly as if they were conceived together.
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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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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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I carry the place around the world in my heart but sometimes I try to shake it off in my dreams
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He knew that when he kissed this girl, and forever wed his unutterable visions to her perishable breath, his mind would never romp again like the mind of God.
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A stirring warmth flowed from her, as if her heart was trying to come out to you concealed in one of those breathless, thrilling words.
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A new world, material without being real, where poor ghosts, breathing dreams like air, drifted fortuitously about.
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Joan Crawford is doubtless the best example of the flapper, the girl you see in smart night clubs, gowned to the apex of sophistication, toying iced glasses with a remote, faintly bitter expression, dancing deliciously, laughing a great deal, with wide, hurt eyes. Young things with a talent for living.
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They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered.
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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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For a while these reveries provided an outlet for his imagination they were a satisfactory hint of the unreality of reality, a promise that the rock of the world was founded securely on a fairy's wing.
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