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Books are like brothers. I am an only child. Gatsby [is] my imaginary eldest brother.
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
Imaginary
Brothers
Brother
Books
Child
Book
Children
Gatsby
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Eldest
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You are mine-you know you're mine! he cried wildly...the moonlight twisted in through the vines and listened...the fireflies hung upon their whispers as if to win his glance from the glory of their eyes.
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Intelligence is a mere instrument of circumstances.
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In short, you have only your emotions to sell. This is the experience of all writers.
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Englishmen must have an island.
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For a while these reveries provided an outlet for his imagination they were a satisfactory hint of the unreality of reality, a promise that the rock of the world was founded securely on a fairy's wing.
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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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I didn't realize it, but the days came along one after another, and then two years were gone, and everything was gone, and I was gone.
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He snatched the book from me and replaced it hastily on its shelf, muttering that if one brick was removed the whole library was liable to collapse.
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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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Every one suspects himself of at least one of the cardinal virtues.
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She smiled at him, making sure that the smile gathered up everything inside her and directed it toward him, making him a profound promise of herself for so little, for the beat of a response, the assurance of a complimentary vibration in him.
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I was too absorbed to be responsive
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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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Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that's no matter - to-morrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther ... And one fine morning ---
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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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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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we both fitted. If our corners were not rubbed off they were at least pulled in. But deep in us both was something that made us require more for happiness. I didn't know what I wanted
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you once liked me, didn't you?, he asked. LIKED you- I LOVED you. Everybody loved you. You could've had anybody you wanted for the asking.
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Kiss me now, love me now.
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Happiness, remarked Maury Noble one day, is only the first hour after the alleviation of some especially intense misery.
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