Summer is only the unfulfilled promise of spring.

F. Scott Fitzgerald

F. Scott Fitzgerald

Profession: Author
Nationality: American


Summer is only the unfulfilled promise of spring. F. Scott Fitzgerald

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It was testimony to the romantic speculation he inspired that there were whispers about him from those who had found little that it was necessary to whisper about in this world.

They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house.

Beauty means the scent of roses and then the death of roses.

The best of America drifts to Paris. The American in Paris is the best American. It is more fun for an intelligent person to live in an intelligent country. France has the only two things toward which we drift as we grow older—intelligence and good manners.

I want to die violently instead of fading out sentimentally.

Goodnight, child. This is a damn shame. Let's drop it out of the picture." He gave her two lines of hospital patter to go to sleep on. "So many people are going to love you and it might be nice to meet your first love all intact, emotionally too. That's an old-fashioned idea, isn't it?

Many nights he lay there dreaming awake of secret cafés in Mont Marte, where ivory women delved in romantic mysteries with diplomats and soldiers of fortune, while orchestras played Hungarian waltzes and the air was thick and exotic with intrigue and moonlight and adventure.

At this point Jordan and I tried to go, but Tom and Gatsby insisted with competitive firmness that we remain - as though neither of them had anything to conceal and it would be a privilege to partake vicariously of their emotions.

You see I think everything's terrible anyhow. Everybody thinks so--the most advanced people. And I know. I've been everywhere and seen everything and done everything. Sophisticated--God, I'm sophisticated!

You remind me of a smoked cigarette.

Let's build a town where.

Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me.

Books are like brothers. I am an only child. Gatsby my imaginary eldest brother, Amory my younger, Anthony my worry. Dick my comparatively good brother but all of them far from home.

She was a brave, hopeful woman and she was following her husband somewhere, changing herself to this kind of person or that, without being able to lead him a step out of his path, and sometimes realizing with discouragement how deep in him the guarded secret of her direction lay. And yet an air of luck clung about her, as if she were a token...