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The purpose of life on earth is that the soul should grow - So Growl By doing what is right.

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
Spirituality
Grow
Grows
Purpose
Spiritual
Earth
Soul
Right
Growl

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Millie Beggs, by the time she was forty-five, had become an emotional anarchist.
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I am really only myself when I'm somebody else whom I have endowed with these wonderful qualities from my imagination.
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One illusion is as good as another.
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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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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 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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Nothing annoys me more than having the most trivial action analyzed and explained.
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Nobody has ever measured, not even poets, how much the heart can hold.
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A vacuum can only exist, I imagine, by the things which enclose it.
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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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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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memories should be sharp when one has nothing else to live for
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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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Something in me vibrates to a dusky, dreamy smell of dying moons and shadows.
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I play the radio and moon about...and dream of Utopias where its always July the 24th 1935, in the middle of summer forever.
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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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Other people's ideas of us are dependent largely on what they've hoped for.
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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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