F. Scott Fitzgerald, fully Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald

F. Scott
Fitzgerald, fully Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald

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

Author Quotes

Until the great mobs could be educated into a moral sense, someone must cry: Thou shalt not!

We ruined ourselves-I have never honestly thought that we ruined each other.

What was it up there in the song that seemed to be calling her back inside? What would happen now in the dim, incalculable hours?

When the lightning strikes one of us, it strikes both.

Wine gave a sort of gallantry to their own failure.

They were careless people ... 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.

This is not a time for hereos because nobody will let it happen

To be afraid, a person has either to be very great and strong-- or else a coward. I'm neither.

Very few of the people who accentuate the futility of life remark the futility of themselves. Perhaps they think that in proclaiming the evil of living they somehow salvage their own worth from the ruin - but they don't, even you and I.

We shook hands and I started away. Just before I reached the hedge I remembered something and turned around. ‘They’re a rotten crowd,’ I shouted across the lawn. ‘You’re worth the whole damn bunch put together.’ I’ve always been glad I said that. It was the only compliment I ever gave him, because I disapproved of him from beginning to end.

What was it? Why won't you tell me? I don't want to break down your illusions. My dear man, I have no illusions about you. I mean illusions about yourself.

When they met again two days later it was Gatsby who was breathless, who was somehow betrayed. Her porch was bright with the bought luxury of star-shine; the wicker of the settee squeaked fashionably as she turned toward him and he kissed her curious and lovely mouth. She had caught a cold and it made her voice huskier and more charming than ever and Gatsby was overwhelmingly aware of the youth and mystery that wealth imprisons and preserves, of the freshness of many clothes and of Daisy, gleaming like silver, safe and proud above the hot struggles of the poor.

Women are necessarily capable of almost anything in their struggle for survival and can scarcely be convicted of such man-made crimes as cruelty.

They were smiling at each other as if this was the beginning of the world.

This is the beauty I want. Beauty has got to be astonishing, astounding-- it's got to burst in on you like a dream, like the exquisite eyes of a girl.

To create souls in men, to create fine happiness and fine despair she must remain deeply proud - proud to be inviolate, proud also to be melting, to be passionate and possessed.

Very well then, better a sane crook than a mad puritan.

We walked back from dinner through the cold vestibules, unutterably aware of our identity with this country for one strange hour, before we melted indistinguishably into it again.

What was the promise with the head sick?

When Vanity kissed Vanity, a hundred happy Junes ago, he pondered o'er her breathlessly, and, that all men might ever know, he rhymed her eyes with life and death: Thru Time I'll save my love! he said. . . yet Beauty vanished with his breath, and, with her lovers, she was dead. . . -Ever his wit and not her eyes, ever his art and not her hair: Who'd learn a trick in rhyme, be wise and pause before his sonnet there. . . So all my words, however true, might sing you to a thousandth June, and no one ever know that you were Beauty for an afternoon.

Work like hell! I had 122 rejection slips before I sold a story.

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.

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

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