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Nothing annoys me more than having the most trivial action analyzed and explained.

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
Nothing
Analyzed
Annoys
Trivial
Explained
Annoying
Action

More quotes by Zelda Fitzgerald

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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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Pronunciation has made many an innocent word sound like a doctor's orders for a stomach pump.
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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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Other people's ideas of us are dependent largely on what they've hoped for.
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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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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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Look closer and you'll see something extraordinary, mystifying, something real and true. We have never been what we seemed.
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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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Experience teaches you how to do things you never want to do again.
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Looking for love is like asking for a new point of departure ... another chance in life.
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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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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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Youth doesn't need friends -- it only needs crowds.
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Something in me vibrates to a dusky, dreamy smell of dying moons and shadows.
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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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A vacuum can only exist, I imagine, by the things which enclose it.
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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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Mr. Fitzgerald-I believe that is how he spells his name-seems to believe that plagiarism begins at home.
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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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Oh, the secret life of man and woman--dreaming how much better we would be than we are if we were somebody else or even ourselves, and feeling that our estate has been unexploited to its fullest.
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