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I'm not much like myself any more.
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
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St Paul
Minnesota
Francis Scott Fitzgerald
Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald
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For awhile after you quit Keats all other poetry seems to be only whistling or humming.
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The officer looked at Daisy while she was speaking, in a way that every young girl wants to be looked at sometime, and because it seemed romantic to me I have remembered the incident ever since.
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I can’t tell you just how wonderful she is. I don’t want you to know. I don’t want any one to know.
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I want leisure to read—an immense amount.
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The test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposed ideas in mind at the same time and still retain the ability to function.
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You can’t repeat the past.” “Can’t repeat the past?” he cried incredulously. “Why of course you can!
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The helpless ecstasy of loosing himself in her charm was a powerful opiate rather than a tonic.
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It's a great advantage not to drink among hard-drinking people. You can hold your tongue, and, moreover, you can time any little irregularity of your own so that everybody else is so blind that they don't see or care.
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In the morning you were never violently sorry-- you made no resolutions, but if you had overdone it and your heart was slightly out of order, you went on the wagon for a few days without saying anything about it, and waited until an accumulation of nervous boredom projected you into another party.
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Books are like brothers. I am an only child. Gatsby [is] my imaginary eldest brother.
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She’s got an indiscreet voice,” I remarked. “It’s full of-“ I hesitated. “Her voice is full of money,” he said suddenly. That was it. I’d never understood before. It was full of money-that was the inexhaustible charm that rose and fell in it, the jingle of it, the cymbals’ song of it.
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interested, I mean, with that intense personal interest to which every one has some vague right at the end
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It was about then [1920] that I wrote a line which certain people will not let me forget: She was a faded but still lovely woman of twenty-seven.
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You are the finest, loveliest, tenderest, and most beautiful person I have ever known—and even that is an understatement.
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The invitation to Miss Myra St. Claire's bobbing party spent the morning in his coat pocket, where it had an intense physical affair with a dusty piece of peanut brittle.
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At the enchanted metropolitan twilight I felt a haunting loneliness sometimes, and felt it in others -- poor young clerks who loitered in front of windows waiting until it was time for a solitary restaurant dinner -- young clerks in the dusk, wasting the most poignant moments of night and life.
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You're a slave, a bound helpless slave to one thing in the world, your imagination.
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Receding from grief, it seems necessary to retrace the same steps that brought us there.
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