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
F. Scott Fitzgerald quotes about
He was so terrible that he was no longer terrible, only dehumanized.
I'm inclined to reserve all judgments, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores.
I am a woman and my business is to hold things together. My business is to tear them apart.
They talked aimlessly back and forth, each speaking for the other.
unloved women have no biographies-- they have histories
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.
She admired him; she was used to clutching her hands together in his wake and heaving audible sighs.
They were still in the happier stage of love. They were full of brave illusions about each other, tremendous illusions, so that the communion of self with self seemed to be on a plane where no other human relations mattered. They both seemed to have arrived there with an extraordinary innocence as though a series of pure accidents had driven them together, so many accidents that at last they were forced to conclude that they were for each other. They had arrived with clean hands, or so it seemed, after no traffic with the merely curious and clandestine.
One writes of scars healed, a loose parallel to the pathology of the skin, but there is no such thing in the life of an individual.
Her beauty climbed the rolling slope, it came into the room, rustling ghost-like through the curtains...
the best contacts are when one knows the obstacles and still wants to preserve a relation.
He had possessed the arrogance of a tall member of a short race, with no obligation save to be tall.
It is not necessarily poverty of spirit that makes a woman surround herself with life—it can be a superabundance of interest...
Have a drink Tom and then you won't feel so foolish to yourself.