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Tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther.

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
Farther
Stretch
Faster
Arms
Tomorrow
Running

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Baltimore is warm but pleasant... I belong here, where everything is civilized and gay and rotted and polite.
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Riches have never fascinated me, unless combined with the greatest charm or distinction.
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One girl can be pretty - but a dozen are only a chorus.
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You are the loveliest thing that I have ever known.
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If you're in love it ought to make you happy. You ought to laugh.
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She confused him and hindered the flow of his ideas. Self-expression had never seemed at once so desirable and so impossible.
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She was feeling the pressure of the world outside and she wanted to see him and feel his presence beside her and be reassured that she was doing the right thing after all.
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Here's to alcohol, the rose colored glasses of life.
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So when the blue smoke of brittle leaves was in the air and the wind blew the wet laundry stiff on the line I decided to come back home.
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The reason one writes isn't the fact he wants to say something. He writes because he has something to say.
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Personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures.
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Very well then, better a sane crook than a mad puritan.
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We want to believe. Young students try to believe in older authors, constituents try to believe in their Congressmen, countries try to believe in their statesmen, but they can't. Too many voices, too much scattered, illogical ill-considered criticism.
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Her grey, sun-strained eyes stared straight ahead, but she had deliberately shifted our relations, and for a moment I thought I loved her. But I am slow-thinking and full of interior rules that act as brakes on my desires, and I knew that first I had to get myself definitely out of that tangle back home.
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Sometimes it is harder to deprive oneself of a pain than of a pleasure and the memory so possessed him that for the moment there was nothing to do but to pretend.
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Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that's no matter - to-morrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther ... And one fine morning ---
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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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People invariably chose inimitable people to imitate.
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He hadn’t once ceased looking at Daisy, and I think he revalued everything in his house according to the measure of response it drew from her well-loved eyes. Sometimes, too, he stared around at his possessions in a dazed way, as though in her actual and astounding presence none of it was any longer real.
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Gold? Yellow, glittering, precious gold?... This yellow slave Will knit and break religions, bless th' accursed, Make the hoar leprosy adored, place thieves, And give them title, knee and approbation With senators on the bench.
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