F. Scott Fitzgerald, fully Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald

F. Scott
Fitzgerald, fully Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald
1896
1940

American Novelist, Short-Story Writer best known for The Great Gatsby and Tender is the Night which were both made into films

Author Quotes

You're worth the whole damn bunch put together.

You can stroke people with words.

YouÂ’re just the romantic age, she continued- fifty. Twenty-five is too worldly wise; thirty is apt to be pale from overwork; forty is the age of long stories that take a whole cigar to tell; sixty is- oh, sixty is too near seventy; but fifty is the mellow age. I love fifty.

Youth is a dream, a form of chemical madness.

You canÂ’t repeat the past. CanÂ’t repeat the past? he cried incredulously. Why of course you can!

You'll find another.'

Youth is like having a big plate of candy. Sentimentalists think they want to be in the pure, simple state they were in before they ate the candy. They don't. They just want the fun of eating it all over again. The matron doesn't want to repeat her girlhood--she wants to repeat her honeymoon. I don't want to repeat my innocence. I want the pleasure of losing it again.

You don’t know what a trial it is to be —like me. I've got to keep my face like steel in the street to keep men from winking at me.

You'll forget. Things are sweeter when they're lost. I know—because once I wanted something and got it. It was the only thing I ever wanted badly, Dot. And when I got it turned to dust in my hands.

You've got an awfully kissable mouth.

You know I'm old in some ways-in others-well, I'm just a little girl. I like sunshine and pretty things and cheerfulness-and I dread responsibility.

You'll notice a blond person is expected to talk. If a blond girl doesn't talk we call her a 'doll'; if a light-haired man is silent he's considered stupid. Yet the world is full of 'dark silent men' and 'languorous brunettes' who haven't a brain in their heads, but somehow are never accused of the dearth.

You know, youÂ’re a little complicated after all.

Young people do not perceive at once that the giver of wounds is the enemy and the quoted tattle merely the arrow.

They were so sorry, dear; they went down to meet each other in a taxi, honey; they had preferences in smiles and had met in Hindustan, and shortly afterward they must have quarrelled, for nobody knew and nobody seemed to care - yet finally one of them had gone and left the other crying, only to feel blue, to feel sad.

This isn’t just an epigram — life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all.

To have something to say is a question of sleepless nights and worry and endless ratiocination of a

Want any of this stuff? Jordan?... Nick? I didn't answer. Nick? he asked again. What? Want any? No... I just remembered that today's my birthday. I was thirty. Before me stretched the portentous, menacing road of a new decade.

We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-colored space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-colored rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall.

What was the use of doing great things if I could have a better time telling her what I was going to do?

When we pulled out into the winter night and the real snow, our snow, began to stretch out beside us and twinkle against the windows, and the dim lights of small Wisconsin stations moved by, a sharp wild brace came suddenly into the air. That's my middle-west - not the wheat or the prairies or the lost Swede towns, but the thrilling returning trains of my youth and the street lamps and sleigh bells in the frosty dark and the shadows of holly wreaths thrown by lighted windows on the snow.

Writers aren't people exactly. Or, if they're any good, they're a whole lot of people trying so hard to be one person. It's like actors, who try so pathetically not to look in mirrors. Who lean backward trying-only to see their faces in the reflecting chandeliers.

They were stars on this stage, each playing to an audience of two: the passion of their pretense created the actuality. Here, finally, was the quintessence of self-expression-- yet it was probable that for the most part their love expressed Gloria rather than Anthony. He felt often like a scarecly tolerated guest at a party she was giving.

This job has given me part of the money for your tuition and it comes so hard that I hate to see you spend it on a course like English Prose since 1800. Anybody that can't read modern English prose by themselves is subnormal — and you know it.

To observe one must be unwary.

Author Picture
First Name
F. Scott
Last Name
Fitzgerald, fully Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald
Birth Date
1896
Death Date
1940
Bio

American Novelist, Short-Story Writer best known for The Great Gatsby and Tender is the Night which were both made into films