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
Her grey, sun-strained eyes stared straight ahead, but she had deliberately shifted our relations, and for a moment I thought I loved her. But I am slow-thinking and full of interior rules that act as brakes on my desires, and I knew that first I had to get myself definitely out of that tangle back home.
Draw your chair up close to the edge of the precipice and I’ll tell you a story.
The strongest guard is placed at the gateway to nothing. Maybe because the condition of emptiness is too shameful to be divulged.
I want to be a society vampire, you see.
One thin's sure and nothing's surer The rich get richer and the poor get — children. In the meantime, In between time...
Can’t repeat the past?…Why of course you can!
Begin with an individual, and before you know it you have created a type; begin with a type, and you find you have created - nothing.
The easiest way to get a reputation is to go outside the fold, shout around for a few years as a violent atheist or a dangerous radical, and then crawl back to the shelter.
At fifteen you had the radiance of early morning, at twenty you will begin to have the melancholy brilliance of the moon.
And lastly from that period I remember riding in a taxi one afternoon between very tall buildings under a mauve and rosy sky; I began to bawl because I had everything I wanted and knew I would never be so happy again.
We must leave this terrifying place to-morrow and go searching for sunshine.
She was overstrained with grief and loneliness: almost any shoulder would have done as well.
It was always the becoming he dreamed of, never the being.
Life plays the same lovely and agonizing joke on all of us.