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It’s just that I feel so sad these wonderful nights. I sort of feel they’re never coming again, and I’m not really getting all I could out of them.
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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More quotes by F. Scott Fitzgerald
Either you think, or else others have to think for you and take power from you, pervert and discipline your natural tastes, civilize and sterilize you.
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First, he realized that the sea was blue and that there was an enormous quantity of it, and that it roared and roared-really all the banalities about the ocean that one could realize, but if any one had told him then that these things were banalities, he would have gaped in wonder.
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I want to just be lazy and I want some of the people around me to be doing things, because that makes me feel comfortable and safe - and I want some of them to be doing nothing at all, because they can be graceful and companionable for me.
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All I think of ever is that I love you.
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Nothing any good isn't hard.
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When the lightning strikes one of us, it strikes both
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Long afterward Amory thought of sophomore spring as the happiest time of his life. His ideas were in tune with life as he found it he wanted no more than to drift and dream and enjoy a dozen new-found friendships through the April afternoons.
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How different it all was from what you'd planned.
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New friends can often have a better time together than old friends.
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Scratch a Yale man with both hands and you'll be lucky to find a coast-guard. Usually you find nothing at all.
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He lifted his arms to the crystaline, radiant sky. I know myself, he cried, but that is all.
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Shakespeare--whetting, frustrating, surprising and gratifying.
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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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The mouth was wide open and ripped at the corners, as though she had choked a little in giving up the tremendous vitality she had stored so long.
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The Montana sunset lay between the mountains like a giant bruise from which darkened arteries spread across a poisoned sky.
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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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They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered.
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Character is plot, plot is character.
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She was dazzling-- alight it was agony to comprehend her beauty in a glance.
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The best of America drifts to Paris. The American in Paris is the best American.
F. Scott Fitzgerald
