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isn't it funny how danger makes people passionate?

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
Passionate
Danger
Funny
Makes
People

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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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Nothing could have survived our life.
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Maybe other people's ideas of us are truer than our own.
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It's terrible to allow conventional habits to gain a hold on a whole household to eat, sleep and live by clock ticks.
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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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We grew up founding our dreams on the infinite promise of American advertising.
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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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The purpose of life on earth is that the soul should grow - So Growl By doing what is right.
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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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It is the loose ends with which men hang themselves.
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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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Scott-there's nothing in the world I want but you-and your precious love. All the material things are nothing. I'd just hate to live in a sordid, colorless existence-because you'd soon love less-and less-and I'd do anything-anything-to keep your heart for my own-I don't want to live-I want to love first and live incidentally.
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without you, dearest dearest I couldn't see or hear or feel or think - or live - I love you so and I'm never in all our lives going to let us be apart another night.
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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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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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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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One illusion is as good as another.
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Millie Beggs, by the time she was forty-five, had become an emotional anarchist.
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