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
You really ought to read more books - you know, those things that look like blocks but come apart on one side.
To have something to say is a question of sleepless nights and worry and endless ratiocination of subject - of endless trying to dig out the essential truth, the essential justice. As a first premise you have to develop a conscience and if on top of that you have talent so much the better. But if you have talent without the conscience, you are just one of many thousands of journalists.
Every one suspects himself of at least one of the cardinal virtues.
It takes a genius to whine appealingly.
Debut: the first time a young girl is seen drunk in public.
Often I think writing is a sheer paring away of oneself leaving always something thinner, barer, more meagre.
I thought of Gatsby's wonder when he first picked out the green light at the end of Daisy's dock. He had come a long way to this lawn and his dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He did not know that it was already behind him. [- Nick Carroway]
The rich are different from us.
I might have enjoyed the company of a woman or two... Or three but that had never stopped me from loving you.
They seemed nearer, not only mentally, but physically when they read ... Their chance was to make everything fine and finished and rich and imaginative; they must bend tiny golden tentacles from his imagination to hers, that would take the place of the great, deep love that was never so near, yet never so much of a dream.
The Montana sunset lay between the mountains like a giant bruise from which darkened arteries spread across a poisoned sky.
"I was counting the waves", replied Amory gravely, "I'm going in for statistics".
They're a rotten crowd', I shouted across the lawn. 'You're worth the whole damn bunch put together.
What was the use of doing great things if I could have a better time telling her what I was going to do?