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Sometimes it is harder to deprive oneself of a pain than of a pleasure and the memory so possessed him that for the moment there was nothing to do but to pretend.
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
Pain
Possessed
Moments
Pretend
Nothing
Memory
Sometimes
Oneself
Harder
Memories
Pleasure
Moment
Deprive
More quotes by F. Scott Fitzgerald
Every author ought to write every book as if he were going to be beheaded the day he finished it.
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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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The victor belongs to the spoils.
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Debut: the first time a young girl is seen drunk in public.
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At fifteen you had the radiance of early morning, at twenty you will begin to have the melancholy brilliance of the moon.
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that voice was a deathless song.
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I just couldn't make the grade as a hack-that, like everything else, requires a certain practiced excellence.
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Long afterward Amory thought of sophomore spring as the happiest time of his life. His ideas were in tune with life as he found it he wanted no more than to drift and dream and enjoy a dozen new-found friendships through the April afternoons.
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There was not a moving up into vacated places there was simply an anachronistic staying on between a vanishing past and an incalculable future.
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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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I'm not much like myself any more.
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You are mysterious, I love you. You’re beautiful, intelligent, and virtuous, and that’s the rarest known combination.
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There's no substitute for will. Sometimes you have to fake will when you don't feel it at all.
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If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that registered earthquakes ten thousand miles away.
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It’s just that I feel so sad these wonderful nights. I sort of feel they’re never coming again, and I’m not really getting all I could out of them.
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Only remember west of the Mississippi it's a little more look, see, act. A little less rationalize, comment, talk.
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His dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He did not know that it was already behind him.
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So when the blue smoke of brittle leaves was in the air and the wind blew the wet laundry stiff on the line I decided to come back home.
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When I see a beautiful shell like that I can't help feeling a regret about what's inside it.
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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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