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
Your first most typical figure in any new place turns out to be a bluff or a local nuisance.
I don't much care where I am anymore, nor expect very much from places.
So there was not an "I" anymore-not a basis on which I could organize my self-respect-save my limitless capacity for toil that it seemed I possessed no more.
I just couldn't make the grade as a hack-that, like everything else, requires a certain practiced excellence.
It was strange to have no self-to be like a little boy left alone in a big house, who knew that now he could do anything he wanted to do, but found that there was nothing that he wanted to do.
I talk with the authority of failure - Ernest with the authority of success. We could never sit across the same table again.
To the wingless a more interesting phenomenon is their (W/E Egg) dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size.
Young people do not perceive at once that the giver of wounds is the enemy and the quoted tattle merely the arrow.
When people are taken out of their depths they lose their heads, no matter how charming a bluff they may put up.
Feel like criticizing any one," he told me, "just remember
The cleverly expressed opposite of any generally accepted idea is worth a fortune to somebody.
Almost everybody can be imagined as either a cat or a dog.
I was haunted always by my other life-my drab room in the Bronx, my square foot of the subway, my fixation upon the day's letter from Alabama-would it come and what would it say?-my shabby suits, my poverty, and love. While my friends were launching decently into life I had muscled my inadequate bark into midstream... I was a failure-mediocre at advertising work and unable to get started as a writer. Hating the city, I got roaring, weeping drunk on my last penny and went home.
Though the Jazz Age continued it became less and less an affair of youth. The sequel was like a children's party taken over by the elders.