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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.

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
Happen
Happens
Reason
Great
Things
Quietly
Reasons
Expected
Doubt

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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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A vacuum can only exist, I imagine, by the things which enclose it.
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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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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 love you, even if there isn’t any me, or any love, or even any life. I love you.
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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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Why is there happiness and comfort and excitement where you are and no where else in the world.
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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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Looking for love is like asking for a new point of departure ... another chance in life.
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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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Other people's ideas of us are dependent largely on what they've hoped for.
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Millie Beggs, by the time she was forty-five, had become an emotional anarchist.
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Something in me vibrates to a dusky, dreamy smell of dying moons and shadows.
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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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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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I suppose all we can really share with people is a taste for the same kinds of weather.
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Death is the only real elegance.
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Nobody has ever been able to experience what they have thoroughly understood - or understand what they have experienced until they have achieved a detachment that renders them incapable of repeating the experience.
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