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You can’t repeat the past.” “Can’t repeat the past?” he cried incredulously. “Why of course you can!

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
Past
Incredulously
Repeat
Repeats
Cried
Courses
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She was dazzling-- alight it was agony to comprehend her beauty in a glance.
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No one should live beyond 30.
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The best of America drifts to Paris. The American in Paris is the best American.
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The Montana sunset lay between the mountains like a giant bruise from which darkened arteries spread across a poisoned sky.
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i'm in a muddle about a lot of things -- i've just discovered that i've a mind, and i'm starting to read read what? everything. i have to pick and choose, of course, but mostly things that make me think.
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We can't possibly have a summer love. So many people have tried that the name's become proverbial. Summer is only the unfulfilled promise of spring, a charlatan in place of the warm balmy nights I dream of in April. It's a sad season of life without growth...It has no day.
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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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A classic,' suggested Anthony, 'is a successful book that has survived the reaction of the next period or generation. Then it's safe, like a style in architecture or furniture. It's acquired a picturesque dignity to take the place of its fashion.
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She was incomprehensible, for, in her, soul and spirit were one - the beauty of her body was the essence of her soul. She was that unity sought for by philosophers through many centuries. In this outdoor waiting room of winds and stars she had been sitting for a hundred years, at peace in the contemplation of herself.
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the best contacts are when one knows the obstacles and still wants to preserve a relation.
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New York had all the iridescence of 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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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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It isn't given to us to know those rare moments when people are wide open and the lightest touch can wither or heal. A moment too late and we can never reach them any more in this world. They will not be cured by our most efficacious drugs or slain with our sharpest swords.
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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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Character is plot, plot is character.
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No amount of fire or freshness can challenge what a man will store up in his ghostly heart.
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Every author ought to write every book as if he were going to be beheaded the day he finished it.
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Amory wondered how people could fail to notice that he was a boy marked for glory, and when faces of the throng turned toward him and ambiguous eyes stared into his, he assumed the most romantic of expressions and walked on the air cushions that lie on the asphalts of fourteen.
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It seemed that the only lover she had ever wanted was a lover in a dream.
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