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I remember every single spot of light that ever gouged a shadow beside your bones.

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
Shadow
Single
Light
Remember
Gouged
Ever
Beside
Every
Spot
Spots
Bones

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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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They hadn't much faith in travel, nor a great belief in a change of scene as a panacea for spiritual ills they were simply glad to be going.
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Nothing annoys me more than having the most trivial action analyzed and explained.
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The purpose of life on earth is that the soul should grow - So Growl By doing what is right.
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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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Death is the only real elegance.
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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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Pronunciation has made many an innocent word sound like a doctor's orders for a stomach pump.
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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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It is the loose ends with which men hang themselves.
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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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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 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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Life has puffed and blown itself into a summer day, and clouds and spring billow over the heavens as if calendars were a listing of mathematical errors.
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We grew up founding our dreams on the infinite promise of American advertising. I still believe that one can learn to play the piano by mail and that mud will give you a perfect complexion.
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Most people hew the battlements of life from compromise, erecting their impregnable keeps from judicious submissions, fabricating their philosophical drawbridges from emotional retractions and scalding marauders in the boiling oil of sour grapes.
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Experience teaches you how to do things you never want to do again.
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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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I love you, even if there isn’t any me, or any love, or even any life. I love you.
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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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