F. Scott Fitzgerald Quotes
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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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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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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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When a man is tired of life on his 21st birthday it indicates that he is rather tired of something in himself.
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Reporting the extreme things as if they were the average things will start you on the art of fiction.
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I must hold in balance the sense of the futility of effort and the sense of the necessity to struggle; the conviction of the inevitability of failure and still the determination to 'succeed' - and, more than these, the contradiction between the dead hand of the past and the high intentions of the future.
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First, he realized that the sea was blue and that there was an enormous quantity of it, and that it roared and roared-really all the banalities about the ocean that one could realize, but if any one had told him then that these things were banalities, he would have gaped in wonder.
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I have lived hard and ruined the essential innocence [sic] in myself that could make it that possible [sic], and the fact that I have abused liquor is something to be paid for with suffering and death perhaps but not renunciation.
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You are mine-you know you're mine!" he cried wildly...the moonlight twisted in through the vines and listened...the fireflies hung upon their whispers as if to win his glance from the glory of their eyes.
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He had waited five years and bought a mansion where he dispensed starlight to casual moths - so that he could 'come over' some afternoon to a stranger's garden.
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I love New York on summer afternoons when everyone's away. There's something very sensuous about it - overripe, as if all sorts of funny fruits were going to fall into your hands.
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We can't possibly have a summer love. So many people have tried that the name's become proverbial. Summer is only the unfulfilled promise of spring, a charlatan in place of the warm balmy nights I dream of in April. It's a sad season of life without growth...It has no day.
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The bar is in full swing, and floating rounds of cocktails permeate the garden outside, until the air is alivewith chatter and laughter, and casual innuendo and introductions forgotten on the spot, and enthusiastic meetings between women who never knew each other’s names.
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How the unforgettable faces of dusk would blend to her, the myriad footsteps, a thousand overtures, would blend to her footsteps; and there would be more drunkenness than wine in the softness of her eyes on his.
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I want to tell you about your heart— you've probably been neglecting your heart—and you don’t know.
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Premature success gives one an almost mystical conception of destiny as opposed to will power-at its worst the Napoleonic delusion.
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I didn't realize it, but the days came along one after another, and then two years were gone, and everything was gone, and I was gone.
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...I think he revalued everything in his house according to the measure of response it drew from her well-loved eyes.
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I don't like girls in the daytime,' he said shortly, and then thinking this a bit abrupt, he added: 'But I like you.' He cleared his throat. 'I like you first and second and third.
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She was feeling the pressure of the world outside and she wanted to see him and feel his presence beside her and be reassured that she was doing the right thing after all.
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Later she remembered all the hours of the afternoon as happy -- one of those uneventful times that seem at the moment only a link between past and future pleasure, but turn out to have been the pleasure itself.
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I had traded the fight against love for the fight against loneliness, the fight against life for the fight against death.
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Begin with an individual, and before you know it you find that you have created a type; begin with a type, and you find that you have created - nothing.
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The Montana sunset lay between the mountains like a giant bruise from which darkened arteries spread across a poisoned sky.