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If he had to bring all the bitterness and hatred of the world into his heart, he was not going to be in love with her again.
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
Bitterness
Hatred
Bring
Heart
Going
Love
World
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Baseball is a game played by idiots for morons.
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He lifted his arms to the crystaline, radiant sky. I know myself, he cried, but that is all.
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I thought of Gatsby's wonder when he first picked out the green light at the end of Daisy's dock. He had come a long way to this lawn and 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. [- Nick Carroway]
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All good writing is swimming under water and holding your breath.
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I'm not much like myself any more.
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Even when the east excited me most, even when I was keenly aware of its superiority to the broad, sprawling, swollen towns beyond the Ohio, with their interminable inquisitions which only spared children and the very old-even then it had always for me a quality of distortion.
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For what it’s worth, it’s never too late to be whoever you want to be.
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The things that'll make you fail I'll love always.
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I began to like New York, the racy, adventurous feel of it at night, and the satisfaction that the constant flicker of men and women and machines gives to the restless eye.
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She smiled at him, making sure that the smile gathered up everything inside her and directed it toward him, making him a profound promise of herself for so little, for the beat of a response, the assurance of a complimentary vibration in him.
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I learned a little of beauty - enough to know that it had nothing to do with truth.
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It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life.
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France was a land, England was a people, but America, having about it still that quality of the idea, was harder to utter - it was the graves at Shiloh and the tired, drawn, nervous faces of its great men, and the country boys dying in the Argonne for a phrase that was empty before their bodies withered. It was a willingness of the heart.
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All I kept thinking about, over and over, was 'You can't live forever you can't live forever.
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But his heart was in a constant, turbulent riot.
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They were smiling at each other as if this was the beginning of the world.
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I want to do everything in the world with you.
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the intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions.
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Of the things they possessed in common, greatest of all was their almost uncanny pull at each others hearts.
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