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Their lips brushed like young wild flowers in the wind.
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
Flowers
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Lips
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Wind
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Someday I'm going to find somebody and love him and love him and never let him go.
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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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She was overstrained with grief and loneliness: almost any shoulder would have done as well.
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Suddenly she realized that what she was regretting was not the lost past but the lost future, not what had not been but what would never be.
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She wanted to crawl into his pocket and be safe forever.
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There are only the pursued, the pursuing, the busy and the tired.
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So we drove on toward death through the cooling twilight.
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So I walked away and left him standing there in the moonlight - watching over nothing.
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You're a slave, a bound helpless slave to one thing in the world, your imagination.
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Cut out all these exclamation points. An exclamation point is like laughing at your own joke.
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Human sympathy has its limits, and we were contented to let all their tragic arguments fade with the city lights behind.
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