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He lifted his arms to the crystaline, radiant sky. I know myself, he cried, but that is all.
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
Radiant
Lifted
Cried
Sky
Arms
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If that was true he must have felt that he had lost the old warm world, paid a high price for living too long with a single dream.
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Trouble has no necessary connection with discouragement. Discouragement has a germ of its own, as different from trouble as arthritis is different from a stiff joint.
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Happiness, remarked Maury Noble one day, is only the first hour after the alleviation of some especially intense misery.
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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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Premature success gives one an almost mystical conception of destiny as opposed to will power-at its worst the Napoleonic delusion.
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A sense of the fundamental decencies is parceled out unequally at birth.
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The lights grow brighter as the earth lurches away from the sun.
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Often people display a curious respect for a man drunk, rather like the respect of simple races for the insane... There is something awe-inspiring in one who has lost all inhibitions.
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She wouldn't let go of the letter. She took it into the tub with her and squeezed it up in a wet ball, and only let me leave it in the soap dish when she saw that it was coming to pieces like snow.
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They were smiling at each other as if this was the beginning of the world.
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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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It was too late - everything was too late. For years now he had dreamed the world away, basing his decisions upon emotions unstable as water.
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She was incurably dishonest.
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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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A squalid phantasmagoria of breath
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He had seen me several times, and had intended to call on me long before, but a peculiar combination of circumstances had prevented it.
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Have a drink Tom and then you won't feel so foolish to yourself.
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The victor belongs to the spoils.
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And he could not tell why the struggle was worthwhile, why he had determined to use the utmost himself and his heritage from the personalities he had passed... He stretched out his arms to the crystalline, radiant sky. I know myself, he cried, But that is all.
F. Scott Fitzgerald
