He snatched out his hand desperately as if to snatch only a… - F. Scott Fitzgerald

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He snatched out his hand desperately as if to snatch only a wisp of air, to save a fragment of the spot that she had made lovely for him. But it was all going by too fast now for his burred eyes and he knew that he had lost that part of it, the freshest and the best, forever.

F. Scott Fitzgerald

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About F. Scott Fitzgerald

Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald (24 September 1896 – 21 December 1940) was an Irish-American novelist and short story writer.

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Native Name: Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald

Alternative Names: Francis Scott Fitzgerald • Scott Fitzgerald

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Thomas Hardy E. M. Forster Truman Capote Henry James Vladimir Nabokov

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I was thirty. Before me stretched the portentous, menacing road of a new decade.

As he took her hand she saw him look her over from head to foot, a gesture she recognized and that made her feel at home, but gave her always a faint feeling of superiority to whoever made it. If her person was property she could exercise whatever advantage was inherent in its ownership.

People over forty can seldom be permanently convinced of anything. At eighteen our convictions are hills from which we look; at forty-five they are caves in which we hide.

He snatched out his hand desperately as if to snatch only a wisp of air, to save a fragment of the spot that she had made lovely for him. But it was … - F. Scott Fitzgerald

About F. Scott Fitzgerald

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