Quote

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.

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
Time
Expressive
Emptying
Thus
Emptied
Continue
Reservoir
Deep
Reservoirs
Ready
Lump
Past
Labeled
Everything
Lumps
Great
Heap
Ashtrays

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There's nothing on earth to do here but look at the view and eat. You can imagine the result since I do not like to look at views.
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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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I suppose all we can really share with people is a taste for the same kinds of weather.
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Nobody has ever measured, not even poets, how much the heart can hold.
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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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Maybe other people's ideas of us are truer than our own.
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I don't want to live. I want to love first, and live incidentally.
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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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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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Other people's ideas of us are dependent largely on what they've hoped for.
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One illusion is as good as another.
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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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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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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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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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Pronunciation has made many an innocent word sound like a doctor's orders for a stomach pump.
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Something in me vibrates to a dusky, dreamy smell of dying moons and shadows.
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I remember every single spot of light that ever gouged a shadow beside your bones.
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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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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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