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I am really only myself when I'm somebody else whom I have endowed with these wonderful qualities from my imagination.

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
Endowed
Qualities
Somebody
Imagination
Wonderful
Quality
Else
Really

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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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Looking for love is like asking for a new point of departure ... another chance in life.
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Being in love, she concluded, is simply a presentation of our pasts to another individual, mostly packages so unwieldy that we can no longer manage the loosened strings alone.
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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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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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Why is there happiness and comfort and excitement where you are and no where else in the world.
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One illusion is as good as another.
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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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The night you gave me my birthday party... you were a young Lieutenant and I was a fragrant phantom, wasn't I? And it was a radiant night, a night of soft conspiracy and the trees agreed that it was all going to be for the best.
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I play the radio and moon about...and dream of Utopias where its always July the 24th 1935, in the middle of summer forever.
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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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It is the loose ends with which men hang themselves.
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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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All I want to be is very young always and very irresponsible and to feel that my life is my own-to live and be happy and die in my own way to please myself
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Nobody has ever measured, not even poets, how much the heart can hold.
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People are like almanacs, Bonnie - you never can find the information you're looking for, but the casual reading is well worth the trouble.
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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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A vacuum can only exist, I imagine, by the things which enclose it.
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Experience teaches you how to do things you never want to do again.
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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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