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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
Men
Loose
Hang
Ends
Writing

More quotes by Zelda Fitzgerald

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I take a sun bath and listen to the hours, formulating, and disintegrating under the pines, and smell the resiny hardihood of the high noon hours. The world is lost in a blue haze of distances, and the immediate sleeps in a thin and finite sun.
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Spinach and champagne. Going back to the kitchens at the old Waldorf. Dancing on the kitchen tables, wearing the chef's headgear. Finally, a crash and being escorted out by the house detectives.
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Experience teaches you how to do things you never want to do again.
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Maybe other people's ideas of us are truer than our own.
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Oh, we are going to be so happy away from all the things that almost got us but couldn't quite because we were too smart for them!
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Women sometimes seem to share a quiet, unalterable dogma of persecution that endows even the most sophisticated of them with the inarticulate poignancy of the peasant.
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Looking for love is like asking for a new point of departure ... another chance in life.
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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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I believed I was a salamander, and it seems I am nothing but an impediment.
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There seemed to be some heavenly support beneath his shoulder blades that lifted his feet from the ground in ecstatic suspension, as if he secretly enjoyed the ability to fly but was walking as a compromise to convention.
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Death is the only real elegance.
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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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Millie Beggs, by the time she was forty-five, had become an emotional anarchist.
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Nothing could have survived our life.
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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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And only weaklings...who lack courage and the power to feel they're right when the whole world says they're wrong, ever lose.
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Pronunciation has made many an innocent word sound like a doctor's orders for a stomach pump.
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I suppose all we can really share with people is a taste for the same kinds of weather.
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Why do we spend years using up our bodies to nurture our minds with experience and find our minds turning then to our exhausted bodies for solace?
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Love is bitter and all there is, and that the rest is for the emotional beggars of the earth.
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