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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
Wild
Lips
Flower
Wind
Young
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Brushed
More quotes by F. Scott Fitzgerald
That is part of the beauty of all literature. You discover that your longings are universal longings, that you're not lonely and isolated from anyone. You belong.
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Though the Jazz Age continued it became less and less an affair of youth. The sequel was like a children's party taken over by the elders.
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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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So we'll just let things take their course, and never be sorry.
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...for a moment people set down their glasses in county clubs and speak-easies and thought of their old best dreams.
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The victor belongs to the spoils.
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Can't repeat the past? he cried incredulously. Why of course you can! He looked around him wildly, as if the past were lurking here in the shadow of his house, just out of reach of his hand.
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There has never been an American tragedy. There have only been great failures.
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The bottle of whiskey - the second one - was now in constant demand by all present, excepting Catherine, who 'felt just as good on nothing at all.
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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 mysterious, I love you. You’re beautiful, intelligent, and virtuous, and that’s the rarest known combination.
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The truth was that Jay Gatsby, of West Egg, Long Island, sprang from his Platonic conception of himself. He was a son of God—a phrase which, if it means anything, means just that—and he must be about His Father’s Business, the service of a vast, vulgar and meretricious beauty.
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America is a willingness of the 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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You are the finest, loveliest, tenderest, and most beautiful person I have ever known—and even that is an understatement.
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I don't like girls in the daytime,' he said shortly, and then thinking this a bit abrupt, he added: 'But I like you.' He cleared his throat. 'I like you first and second and third.
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Now the standard cure for one who is sunk is to consider those in actual destitution or physical suffering
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he could transform the barest incident into a thing of curve and contour.
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The hangover became a part of the day as well allowed-for as the Spanish siesta.
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But I always felt that I'd rather be provincial hot-tamale than soup without seasoning.
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