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They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together.
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
Years
Spent
People
Played
Wealth
Particular
Rich
Drifted
Year
Polo
Together
Wherever
Reason
France
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...I think he revalued everything in his house according to the measure of response it drew from her well-loved eyes.
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the cracked plate has to be retained in the pantry, has to be kept in service as a household necessity. It can never be warmed on the stove nor shuffled with the other plates in the dishpan it will not be brought out for company but it will do to hold crackers late at night or to go into the ice-box with the left overs.
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Very well then, better a sane crook than a mad puritan.
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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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First, he realized that the sea was blue and that there was an enormous quantity of it, and that it roared and roared-really all the banalities about the ocean that one could realize, but if any one had told him then that these things were banalities, he would have gaped in wonder.
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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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But I suppose you must touch life in order to spring from it.
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Reporting the extreme things as if they were the average things will start you on the art of fiction.
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The invitation to Miss Myra St. Claire's bobbing party spent the morning in his coat pocket, where it had an intense physical affair with a dusty piece of peanut brittle.
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My God,' he gasped, 'you're fun to kiss.
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that voice was a deathless song.
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Suddenly she realized that what she was regretting was not the lost past but the lost future, not what had not been but what would never be.
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He was so terrible that he was no longer terrible, only dehumanized.
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A squalid phantasmagoria of breath
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He dispensed starlight to casual moths.
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That's the whole burden of this novel - the loss of those illusions that give such color to the world that you don't care whether things are true or false as long as they partake of the magical glory.
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Life is essentially a cheat and its conditions are those of defeat the redeeming things are not happiness and pleasure but the deeper satisfactions that come out of struggle.
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