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Her beauty climbed the rolling slope, it came into the room, rustling ghost-like through the curtains.
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
Beauty
Slopes
Like
Climbed
Curtains
Rolling
Ghost
Room
Rooms
Rustling
Came
Slope
More quotes by F. Scott Fitzgerald
I am a woman and my business is to hold things together. My business is to tear them apart.
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The notion of sitting down and conjuring up, not only words in which to clothe thoughts but thoughts worthy of being clothed--the whole thing was absurdly beyond his desires.
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You are mine-you know you're mine! he cried wildly...the moonlight twisted in through the vines and listened...the fireflies hung upon their whispers as if to win his glance from the glory of their eyes.
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...for a moment people set down their glasses in county clubs and speak-easies and thought of their old best dreams.
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You are the finest, loveliest, tenderest, and most beautiful person I have ever known—and even that is an understatement.
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In a real dark night of the soul, it is always three o'clock in the morning, day after day.
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The best of America drifts to Paris. The American in Paris is the best American. It is more fun for an intelligent person to live in an intelligent country. France has the only two things toward which we drift as we grow older—intelligence and good manners.
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They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered.
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Shakespeare--whetting, frustrating, surprising and gratifying.
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Experience is not worth the getting. It's not a thing that happens pleasantly to a passive you--it's a wall that an active you runs up against.
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She’s got an indiscreet voice,” I remarked. “It’s full of-“ I hesitated. “Her voice is full of money,” he said suddenly. That was it. I’d never understood before. It was full of money-that was the inexhaustible charm that rose and fell in it, the jingle of it, the cymbals’ song of it.
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It was as if for the remainder of his life he was condemned to carry with him the egos of certain people, early met and early loved, and to be only as complete as they were complete themselves. There was some element of loneliness involved--so easy to be loved--so hard to love.
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I began to realize that for two years my life had been a drawing on resources that I did not possess, that I had been mortgaging myself physically and spiritually up to the hilt.
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we both fitted. If our corners were not rubbed off they were at least pulled in. But deep in us both was something that made us require more for happiness. I didn't know what I wanted
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Things are sweeter when they're lost. I know--because once I wanted something and got it. It was the only thing I ever wanted badly, Dot, and when I got it it turned to dust in my hand.
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Can't repeat the past? he cried incredulously. Why of course you can! He looked around him wildly, as if the past were lurking here in the shadow of his house, just out of reach of his hand.
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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.
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New friends can often have a better time together than old friends.
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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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All things come to him who mates.
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