F. Scott Fitzgerald Quotes

In the morning you were never violently sorry — you made no resolutions, but if you had overdone it and your heart was slightly out of order, you went on the wagon for a few days without saying anything about it, and waited until an accumulation of nervous boredom projected you into another party.

Then there came a faraway, booming voice like a low, clear bell. It came from the center of the bowl and down the great sides to the ground and then bounced toward her eagerly. 'You see I am fate,' it shouted, 'and stronger than your puny plans; and I am how-things-turn-out and I am different from your little dreams, and I am the flight of time and the end of beauty and unfulfilled desire; all the accidents and imperceptions and the little minutes that shape the crucial hours are mine. I am the exception that proves no rules, the limits of your control, the condiment in the dish of life.

mother says that two souls are sometimes created together and — and in love before they're born.

I was too absorbed to be responsive

Whenever you feel like criticizing any one... just remember that all the people in this world haven't had the advantages that you've had.

credit is something that should be given to others. If you are in a position to give credit to yourself, then you do not need it.

But you can love more than just one person, can't you?

Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven-a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savours of anti-climax.

Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour.

The truth is that the public has done one of those startling and amazing things that they do about once in a hundred years. They've seized an idea.
"What is it?"
"That however the brains and abilities of men may differ, their stomachs are essentially the same."

He says unloved women have no biographies — they have histories.

One should . . . be able to see things as hopeless and yet be determined to make them otherwise.

Another sigh came from the window — quite a resigned sigh. 'She's life and hope and happiness, my whole world now.' He felt the quiver of a tear on his eyelid.

Dishonesty in a woman is a thing you never blame deeply.

Stahr's eyes and Kathleen's met and tangled. For an instant they made love as no one ever dares to do after. Their glance was slower than an embrace, more urgent than a call.