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Love is bitter and all there is, and that the rest is for the emotional beggars of the earth.

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
Emotional
Rest
Earth
Love
Beggars
Beggar
Bitter

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We grew up founding our dreams on the infinite promise of American advertising.
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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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I suppose all we can really share with people is a taste for the same kinds of weather.
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Something in me vibrates to a dusky, dreamy smell of dying moons and shadows.
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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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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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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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“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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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 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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I love you, even if there isn’t any me, or any love, or even any life. I love you.
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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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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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I can't read or sleep. Without hope or youth or money I sit constantly wishing I were dead.
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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.
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A southern moon is a sodden moon, and sultry. When it swamps the fields and the rustling sandy roads and the sticky honeysuckle hedges in its sweet stagnation, your fight to hold on to reality is like a protestation against a first waft of ether.
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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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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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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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Nobody has ever measured, not even poets, how much the heart can hold.
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