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It is the loose ends with which men hang themselves.

Zelda Fitzgerald

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Zelda Fitzgerald
Age: 47 †
Born: 1900
Born: July 24
Died: 1948
Died: March 10
Artist
Autobiographer
Dancer
Journalist
Novelist
Painter
Poet
Socialite
Writer
Montgomery
Alabama
Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald
Zelda Sayre
Hang
Ends
Writing
Men
Loose

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Look closer and you'll see something extraordinary, mystifying, something real and true. We have never been what we seemed.
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By the time a person has achieved years adequate for choosing a direction, the die is cast and the moment has long since passed which determined the future.
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Women, despite the fact that nine out of ten of them go through life with a death-bed air either of snatching-the-last-moment or with martyr-resignation, do not die tomorrow--or the next day. They have to live on to any one of many bitter ends.
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Father said conflict develops the character
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She refused to be bored chiefly because she wasn't boring.
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The trouble with emergencies is, she said, that I always put on my finest underwear and then nothing happens.
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I wish I could write a beautiful book to break those hearts that are soon to cease to exist: a book of faith and small neat worlds and of people who live by the philosophies of popular songs.
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Oh, the secret life of man and woman--dreaming how much better we would be than we are if we were somebody else or even ourselves, and feeling that our estate has been unexploited to its fullest.
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Looking for love is like asking for a new point of departure ... another chance in life.
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Millie Beggs, by the time she was forty-five, had become an emotional anarchist.
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And, Joey, if you ever want to know about the japonicas and the daisy fields it will be alright that you have forgotten because I will be able to tell you about how it felt to be feeling that way you cannot quite remember – that will be for the time when something happens years from now that reminds you of now.
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It seems to me that on one page I recognized a portion of an old diary of mine which mysteriously disappeared shortly after my marriage, and, also, scraps of letters which, though considerably edited, sound to me vaguely familiar. In fact, Mr. Fitzgerald (I believe that is how he spells his name) seems to believe that plagiarism begins at home.
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A southern moon is a sodden moon, and sultry. When it swamps the fields and the rustling sandy roads and the sticky honeysuckle hedges in its sweet stagnation, your fight to hold on to reality is like a protestation against a first waft of ether.
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Why should all life be work, when we all can borrow. Let's think only of today, and not worry about tomorrow.
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She quietly expected great things to happen to her, and no doubt that’s one of the reasons why they did.
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“Everybody gives you belief for the asking,” she said to David, “and so few people give you anything more to believe in than your own belief—just not letting you down, that's all. It's so hard to find a person who accepts responsibilities beyond what you ask.' 'So easy to be loved - so hard to love.' David answered.
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Mr. Fitzgerald-I believe that is how he spells his name-seems to believe that plagiarism begins at home.
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Don't you think I was made for you? I feel like you had me ordered - and I was delivered to you - to be worn. I want you to wear me, like a watch-charm or a buttonhole bouquet.
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I don’t suppose I really know you very well - but I know you smell like the delicious damp grass that grows near old walls and that your hands are beautiful opening out of your sleeves and that the back of your head is a mossy sheltered cave when there is trouble in the wind and that my cheek just fits the depression in your shoulder.
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We grew up founding our dreams on the infinite promise of American advertising.
Zelda Fitzgerald