F. Scott Fitzgerald Quotes
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You can’t repeat the past.” “Can’t repeat the past?” he cried incredulously. “Why of course you can!
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Dear, don't think of getting out of bed yet. I've always suspected that early rising in early life makes one nervous.
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A stirring warmth flowed from her, as if her heart was trying to come out to you concealed in one of those breathless, thrilling words.
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The kiss originated when the first male reptile licked the first female reptile, implying in a subtle way that she was as succulent as the small reptile he had for dinner the night before.
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In his blue gardens men and girls came and went like moths among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars.
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I have asked a lot of my emotions-one hundred and twenty stories. The price was high, right up with Kipling, because there was one little drop of something, not blood, not a tear, not my seed, but me more intimately than these, in every story, it was the extra I had. Now it has gone and I am just like you now.
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the cracked plate has to be retained in the pantry, has to be kept in service as a household necessity. It can never be warmed on the stove nor shuffled with the other plates in the dishpan; it will not be brought out for company but it will do to hold crackers late at night or to go into the ice-box with the left overs.
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Her beautiful eyes and lips were very grave as she made her choice, and Anthony thought again how naive was her every gesture; she took all the things of life for hers to choose from and apportion, as though she were continually picking out presents for herself from an inexhaustible counter.
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I hope something happens. I'm restless as the devil and have a horror of getting fat or falling in love and growing domestic.
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The unwelcome November rain had perversely stolen the day's last hour and pawned it with that ancient fence, the night.
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One should, for example, be able to see that things are hopeless and yet be determined to make them otherwise.
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Most people think everybody feels about them much more violently than they actually do; they think other people's opinions of them swing through great arcs of approval or disapproval.
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He snatched out his hand desperately as if to snatch only a wisp of air, to save a fragment of the spot that she had made lovely for him. But it was all going by too fast now for his burred eyes and he knew that he had lost that part of it, the freshest and the best, forever.
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The greatest profound pain is cased by, and is the result of our own illusions, fantasies and dreams.
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When the first-rate author wants an exquisite heroine or a lovely morning, he finds that all the superlatives have been worn shoddy by his inferiors. It should be a rule that bad writers must start with plain heroines and ordinary mornings, and, if they are able, work up to something better.
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I can’t tell you just how wonderful she is. I don’t want you to know. I don’t want any one to know.
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It was an amazing predicament. He was, in one sense, the richest man that ever lived - and yet was he worth anything at all? If his secret should transpire there was no telling to what measures the Government might resort in order to prevent a panic, in gold as well as in jewels. They might take over the claim immediately and institute a monopoly.
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His hand took hold of hers, and as she said something low in his ear he turned toward her with a rush of emotion. I think that voice held him most, with its fluctuating, feverish warmth, because it couldn’t be over-dreamed —that voice was a deathless song.
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The two basic stories of all times are Cinderella and Jack the Giant Killer-the charm of women and the courage of men.
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Often a man can play the helpless child in front of a woman, but he can almost never bring it off when he feels most like a helpless child.
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A classic,' suggested Anthony, 'is a successful book that has survived the reaction of the next period or generation. Then it's safe, like a style in architecture or furniture. It's acquired a picturesque dignity to take the place of its fashion.
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He read at wine, he read in bed, He read aloud, had he the breath, His every thought was with the dead, And so he read himself to death.
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If you try to create a type, you may end with nothing. If you do a good job of creating an individual, you may succeed at creating a type.
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Reporting the extreme things as if they were the average things will start you on the art of fiction.