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The trouble with emergencies is, she said, that I always put on my finest underwear and then nothing happens.

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
Underwear
Finest
Trouble
Happens
Nothing
Always
Emergencies

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We grew up founding our dreams on the infinite promise of American advertising.
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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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Look closer and you'll see something extraordinary, mystifying, something real and true. We have never been what we seemed.
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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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Nothing could have survived our life.
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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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Mr. Fitzgerald-I believe that is how he spells his name-seems to believe that plagiarism begins at home.
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Something in me vibrates to a dusky, dreamy smell of dying moons and shadows.
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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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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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Anything incomprehensible has a sexual significance to many people under thirty-five.
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memories should be sharp when one has nothing else to live for
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I can't read or sleep. Without hope or youth or money I sit constantly wishing I were dead.
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She felt the essence of herself pulled finer and smaller like those streams of spun glass that pull and stretch till there remains but a glimmering illusion. Neither falling nor breaking, the stream spins finer. She felt herself very small and ecstatic. Alabama was in love.
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Emptying the ashtrays was very expressive of myself. i just lump everything in a great heap which i have labeled ‘the past,’ and having thus emptied this deep reservoir that was once myself, i am ready to continue.
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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 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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I suppose all we can really share with people is a taste for the same kinds of weather.
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