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

They always believe that 'things are in a bad way now,' but they 'haven't any faith in these idealists.' One minute they call Wilson 'just a dreamer, not practical'- a year later they rail at him for making his dreams realities. They haven't clear logical ideas on one single subject except a sturdy, stolid opposition to all change. They don't think uneducated people should be highly paid, but they won't see that if they don't pay the uneducated people their children are going to be uneducated too, and we're going round and round in a circle. That- is the great middle class.

There was never a good biography of a good novelist. There couldn't be. He is too many people if he's any good.

They conducted themselves according to the rules of behavior associated with an amusement park.

There was no God in his heart, he knew; his ideas were still in riot; there was ever the pain of memory; the regret for his lost youth-yet the waters of disillusion had left a deposit on his soul, responsibility and a love of life, the faint stirring of old ambitions and unrealized dreams... And he could not tell why the struggle was worthwhile, why he had determined to use to the utmost himself and his heritage from the personalities he had passed... He stretched out his arms to the crystalline, radiant sky. I know myself, he cried, but that is all.

They damned the books I read and the things I thought by calling them immoral; later the fashion changed, and they damned things by calling them ‘clever.

There was not a moving up into vacated places; there was simply an anachronistic staying on between a vanishing past and an incalculable future.

They had never been closer in their month of love, nor communicated more profoundly one with another, than when she brushed silent lips against his coat's shoulder or when he touched the end of her fingers, gently, as though she were asleep.

There was one of his lonelinesses coming, one of those times when he walked the streets or sat, aimless and depressed, biting a pencil at his desk. It was a self-absorption with no comfort, a demand for expression with no outlet, a sense of time rushing by, ceaselessly and wastefully - assuaged only by that conviction that there was nothing to waste, because all efforts and attainments were equally valueless.

They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together.

There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine health to be pulled down out of he young breath-giving air.

They proceeded with an infinite guile that would have horrified her parents.

There was something pathetic in his concentration, as if his complacency, more acute than of old, was not enough to him anymore.

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.

There! she said, as she spread the tablecloth and put the sandwiches in a neat pile upon it. Don't they look tempting? I always think that food tastes better outdoors. With that remark, remarked Kismine, Jasmine enters the Middle class.

They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered.

ThereÂ’s a loneliness that only exists in oneÂ’s mind. The loneliest moment in someoneÂ’s life is when they are watching their whole world fall apart, and all they can do is blink.

There was a machine in the kitchen which could extract the juice of two hundred oranges in half an hour, if a little button was pressed two hundred times by a butlerÂ’s thumb.

There was a kindliness about intoxication - there was that indescribable gloss and glamour it gave, like the memories of ephemeral and faded evenings.

There used to be two kinds of kisses. First when girls were kissed and deserted; second, when they were engaged. Now there's a third kind, where the man is kissed and deserted. If Mr. Jones of the nineties bragged he'd kissed a girl, everyone knew he was through with her. If Mr. Jones of 1919 brags the same everyone knows it's because he can't kiss her any more.

There are all kinds of love in this world but never the same love twice.

There are certain things which are human nature, he asserted with an owl-like look, which always have been and always will be, which can't be changed.

There are no second acts in American lives.

There are only the pursued, the pursuing, the busy and the tired.

There are open wounds, shrunk sometimes to the size of a pin-prick but wounds still.

There are times when you almost tell the harmless old lady next door what you really think of her face—that it ought to be on a night-nurse in a house for the blind; when you’d like to ask the man you’ve been waiting ten minutes for if he isn’t all overheated from racing the postman down the block; when you nearly say to the waiter that if they deducted a cent from the bill for every degree the soup was below tepid the hotel would owe you half a dollar; when—and this is the infallible earmark of true exasperation—a smile affects you as an oil-baron’s undershirt affects a cow’s husband. But the moment passes. Scars may remain on your dog or your collar or your telephone receiver, but your soul has slid gently back into its place between the lower edge of your heart and the upper edge of your stomach, and all is at peace.

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