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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.

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
Eyes
Glances
Winning
Twisted
Fireflies
Upon
Listened
Firefly
Eye
Hung
Wildly
Cried
Whispers
Mines
Vines
Mine
Glance
Glory
Moonlight

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Selfish people are in a way terribly capable of great loves.
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What do you think of that? It’s stopped raining. I’m glad Jay. Her throat, full of aching, grieving beauty, told only of her unexpected joy.
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No such thing as a man willing to be honest - that would be like a blind man willing to see.
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Nothing any good isn't hard.
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The world, as a rule, does not live on beaches and in country clubs.
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Here's to alcohol, the rose colored glasses of life.
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And after reading Thoreau I felt how much I have lost by leaving nature out of my life.
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Action is character.
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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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Everything that begins, begins with blood.
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I suppose the latest thing is to sit back and let Mr. Nobody from Nowhere make love to your wife.
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It is sadder to find the past again and find it inadequate to the present than it is to have it elude you and remain forever a harmonious conception of memory.
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She wanted to crawl into his pocket and be safe forever.
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Travel, which had once charmed him, seemed, at length, unendurable, a business of color without substance, a phantom chase after his own dream's shadow.
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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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That was always my experience-a poor boy in a rich town a poor boy in a rich boy's school a poor boy in a rich man's club at Princeton .... However, I have never been able to forgive the rich for being rich, and it has colored my entire life and works.
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Men get to be a mixture of the charming mannerisms of the women they have known.
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Then wear the gold hat, if that will move her If you can bounce high, bounce for her too, Till she cry Lover, gold-hatted, high-bouncing lover, I must have you!
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When the first-rate author wants an exquisite heroine or a lovely morning, he finds that all the superlatives have been worn shoddy by his inferiors. It should be a rule that bad writers must start with plain heroines and ordinary mornings, and, if they are able, work up to something better.
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