Quotes from F. Scott Fitzgerald

Life cracked like ice!

You have a place in my heart no one else ever could have.

I had traded the fight against love for the fight against loneliness, the fight against life for the fight against death.

I wish I had done everything on earth with you

I'm not used to being loved. I wouldn't know what to do.

He looked at her and for a moment she lived in the bright blue worlds of his eyes, eagerly and confidently.

If you're in love it ought to make you happy. You ought to laugh.

I was a little shocked at the elaborateness of the lie.

A classic,' suggested Anthony, 'is a successful book that has survived the reaction of the next period or generation. Then it's safe, like a style in architecture or furniture. It's acquired a picturesque dignity to take the place of its fashion.

Character is plot, plot is character.

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.

It is youth's felicity as well as its insufficiency that it can never live in the present, but must always be measuring up the day against its own radiantly imagined future

my imagination persisted in sticking horrors into the dark- so I stuck my imagination into the dark instead, and let it look out at me.

I love her and that's the beginning and end of everything.

Amory: I love you. Rosalind: I love you- now.

Selfish people are in a way terribly capable of great loves.

I want to die violently instead of fading out sentimentally.

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

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...

A phrase began to beat in my ears with a sort of heady excitement: There are only the pursued, the pursuing, the busy and the tired.

It is in the twenties that the actual momentum of life begins to slacken, and it is a simple soul indeed to whom as many things are as significant and meaningful at thirty as at ten years before. At thirty an organ-grinder is a more or less a moth eaten man who grinds an organ - and once he was an organ-grinder! The unmistakable stigma of humanity touches all those impersonal and beautiful things that only youth ever grasps in their impersonal glory.

She saw something awful in the very simplicity she failed to understand.

The fire blazing in her dark and injured heart seemed to glow around her like a flame.

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