F. Scott Fitzgerald
F. Scott Fitzgerald
Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald, known professionally as F. Scott Fitzgerald, was an American novelist and short story writer, whose works are the paradigmatic writings of the Jazz Age. He is widely regarded as one of the greatest American writers of the 20th century. Fitzgerald is considered a member of the "Lost Generation" of the 1920s. He finished four novels: This Side of Paradise, The Beautiful and Damned, The Great Gatsby, and Tender Is the Night. A fifth, unfinished novel, The...
NationalityAmerican
ProfessionNovelist
Date of Birth24 September 1896
CitySaint Paul, MN
CountryUnited States of America
unloved women have no biographies-- they have histories
They talked aimlessly back and forth, each speaking for the other.
The helpless ecstasy of loosing himself in her charm was a powerful opiate rather than a tonic.
I am a woman and my business is to hold things together. My business is to tear them apart.
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.
You're the only girl I've seen for a long time that actually did look like something blooming.
It is youth’s felicity as well as its insufficiency that it can never live in the present, but must always be measuring up the day against its own radiantly imagined future
I think they're very attractive,' Abe agreed. 'I just don't think they're attractive, that's all.
Girls like you are responsible for all the tiresome colorless marriages; all those ghastly inefficiencies that pass as feminine qualities. What a blow it must be when a man with imagination marries the beautiful bundle of clothes that he's been building ideals around, and finds that she's just a weak, whining, cowardly mass of affectations!
Happiness, remarked Maury Noble one day, is only the first hour after the alleviation of some especially intense misery.
Who would not be pleased at carrying lamps helpfully through the darkness?
If he had to bring all the bitterness and hatred of the world into his heart, he was not going to be in love with her again.
A sudden gust of rain blew over them and then another - as if small liquid clouds were bouncing along the land. Lightning entered the sea far off and the air blew full of crackling thunder. The table cloths blew around the pillars. They blew and blew and blew. The flags twisted around the red chairs like live things, the banners were ragged, the corners of the table tore off through the burbling billowing ends of the cloths.
It was as if for the remainder of his life he was condemned to carry with him the egos of certain people, early met and early loved, and to be only as complete as they were complete themselves. There was some element of loneliness involved--so easy to be loved--so hard to love.