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
An artist is someone who can hold two opposing viewpoints and still remain fully functional.
No grand idea was ever born in a conference, but a lot of foolish ideas have died there.
How strange to have failed as a social creature—even criminals do not fail that way—they are the law's "Loyal Opposition," so to speak. But the insane are always mere guests on earth, eternal strangers carrying around broken decalogues that they cannot read.
I like people and I like them to like me, but I wear my heart where God put it, on the inside.
I couldn’t forgive him or like him, but I saw that what he had done was, to him, entirely justified. It was all very careless and confused. They were careless people, Tom and Daisy—they smashed up things and creatures and then retreated back into their money or their vast carelessness, or whatever it was that kept them together, and let other people clean up the mess they had made.
Well, you never knew exactly how much space you occupied in people's lives. Yet from this fog his affection emerged--the best contacts are when one knows the obstacles and still wants to preserve a relation.
Rosemary felt that this swim would become the typical one of her life, the one that would always pop up in her memory at the mention of swimming.
Tired, tired with nothing, tired with everything, tired with the world’s weight he had never chosen to bear.
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.
It takes two to make an accident.
One should . . . be able to see things as hopeless and yet be determined to make them otherwise.
So we'll just let things take their course, and never be sorry.
Never miss a party...good for the nerves--like celery.
The unwelcome November rain had perversely stolen the day's last hour and pawned it with that ancient fence, the night.