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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

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
Life
Dies
Happy
Young
Live
Feel
Feels
Way
Irresponsible
Always
Please

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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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A vacuum can only exist, I imagine, by the things which enclose it.
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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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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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Oh, we are going to be so happy away from all the things that almost got us but couldn't quite because we were too smart for them!
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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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Nobody has ever measured, not even poets, how much the heart can hold.
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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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Why is there happiness and comfort and excitement where you are and no where else in the world.
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Nothing annoys me more than having the most trivial action analyzed and explained.
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Father said conflict develops the character
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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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Look closer and you'll see something extraordinary, mystifying, something real and true. We have never been what we seemed.
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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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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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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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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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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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Women sometimes seem to share a quiet, unalterable dogma of persecution that endows even the most sophisticated of them with the inarticulate poignancy of the peasant.
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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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