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I like France, where everybody thinks he's Napoleon--down here everybody thinks he's Christ.
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
Christ
Thinking
Like
Napoleon
France
Thinks
Everybody
More quotes by F. Scott Fitzgerald
It takes two to make an accident.
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The sign of intelligence is the ability to carry opposed thoughts at the same time.
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If you spend your life sparing people’s feelings and feeding their vanity, you get so you can’t distinguish what should be respected in them.
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He dispensed starlight to casual moths.
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I hope you make the best of it. And I hope you see things that startle you. I hope you feel things you never felt before. I hope you meet people with a different point of view. I hope you live a life you're proud of. If you find that you're not, I hope you have the strength to start all over again.
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That familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.
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Work like hell! I had 122 rejection slips before I sold a story.
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You can’t repeat the past.” “Can’t repeat the past?” he cried incredulously. “Why of course you can!
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He had no plans, no definite intentions, except to kiss her lips again, to hold her in his arms.
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Dishonesty in a woman is a thing you never blame deeply.
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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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No, interrupted Marcia emphatically. And you're a sweet boy. Come here and kiss me. Horace stopped quickly in front of her. Why do you want me to kiss you? he asked intently. Do you just go round kissing people? Why, yes, admitted Marcia, unruffled. 'At's all life is. Just going around kissing people.
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I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth.
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They were smiling at each other as if this was the beginning of the world.
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People disappeared, reappeared, made plans to go somewhere, and then lost each other, searched for each other, found each other a few feet away.
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Look at that,' she whispered, and then after a moment: 'I'd like to just get one of those pink clouds and put you in it and push you around.
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And Yale is November, crisp and energetic.
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All that kept her from breaking was that it was not an image of strength that was leaving her she would be just as strong without him.
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Human sympathy has its limits.
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That is part of the beauty of all literature. You discover that your longings are universal longings, that you're not lonely and isolated from anyone. You belong.
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