Of course all life is a process of breaking down, but the blows that do the dramatic side of the work-the big sudden blows that come, or seem to come, from outside-the ones you remember and blame things on and, in moments of weakness, tell your friends about, don't show their effect all at once.

F. Scott Fitzgerald

F. Scott Fitzgerald

Profession: Author
Nationality: American

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Her face, the face of a saint, a viking Madonna, shone through the faint motes that snowed across the candlelight, drew down its flush from the wine-colored lanterns in the pine. She was still as still.

This unlikely story begins on a sea that was a blue dream, as colorful as blue-silk stockings, and beneath a sky as blue as the irises of children's eyes.

Yet how bored they both looked, and how wearily Ethel regarded Jim sometimes, as if she wondered why she had trained the vines of her affection on such a wind-shaken poplar.

January, the Monday of months....

It was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again.

I wish I had done everything on earth with you.

Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it.

Beautiful things grow to a certain height and then they fail and fade off, breathing out memories as they decay.

Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall.

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

We want to believe. Young students try to believe in older authors, constituents try to believe in their Congressmen, countries try to believe in their statesmen, but they can't. Too many voices, too much scattered, illogical ill-considered criticism.

Into the dark, smoky restaurant, smelling of rich raw foods on the buffet, slid Nicole's sky-blue suit like a stray segment of the weather outside.

The more I want to be oblivious, the less I can be. Life and light will not let me be.

I may turn out an intellectual, but I'll never write anything but mediocre poetry.