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There was a kindliness about intoxication - there was that indescribable gloss and glamour it gave, like the memories of ephemeral and faded evenings.
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
Faded
Glamour
Evening
Kindliness
Gave
Evenings
Memories
Gloss
Like
Intoxication
Indescribable
Ephemeral
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Was it the infinite sadness of her eyes that drew him or the mirror of himself that he found in the gorgeous clarity of her mind?
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Work like hell! I had 122 rejection slips before I sold a story.
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She was overstrained with grief and loneliness: almost any shoulder would have done as well.
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But his heart was in a constant, turbulent riot.
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They were smiling at each other as if this was the beginning of the world.
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Dishonesty in a woman is a thing you never blame deeply.
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I hope you make the best of it. And I hope you see things that startle you. I hope you feel things you never felt before. I hope you meet people with a different point of view. I hope you live a life you're proud of. If you find that you're not, I hope you have the strength to start all over again.
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You seem to take things so personally, hating people and worshipping them--always thinking people are so important--especially yourselves. You just ask to be kicked around. I like people and I like them to like me, but I wear my heart where God put it--on the inside.
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Never miss a party...good for the nerves--like celery.
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A stirring warmth flowed from her, as if her heart was trying to come out to you concealed in one of those breathless, thrilling words.
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He wanted to appear suddenly to her in novel and heroic colors. He wanted to stir her from that casualness she showed toward everything except herself.
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Englishmen must have an island.
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But I suppose you must touch life in order to spring from it.
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It was only a sunny smile, and little it cost in the giving, but like morning light it scattered the night and made the day worth living.
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Daisy began to sing with the music in a husky, rhythmic whisper, bringing out a meaning in each word that it had never had before and would never have again. When the melody rose, her voice broke up sweetly, following it, in a way contralto voices have, and each change tipped out a little of her warm human magic upon the air.
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