Quotes from F. Scott Fitzgerald

Amory became thirteen, rather tall and slender, and more than ever on to his Celtic mother. He had tutored occasionally—the idea being that he was to keep up, at each place taking up the work where he left off, yet as no tutor ever found the place he left off, his mind was still in very good shape.

He was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby's liquor.

It was necessary for him to have hope. So he built hope, desperately and tenaciously out of the stuff of his dream, a hope flimsy enough, to be sure, a hope that was cracked and dissipated a dozen times a day, a hope mothered by mockery, but, nevertheless, a hope that would be brawn and sinew to his self-respect.

if truth is the end of life, happiness is a mode of it, to be cherished in it's brief and tremulous moment.

This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the 'creative temperament'—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. No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what

Similarly we are seldom sorry for those who need and crave our pity--we reserve this for those who, by other means, make us exercise the

Here, finally, was the quintessence of self-expression – yet it was probably that for the most part their love expressed Gloria rather than Anthony. He felt often like a scarcely tolerated guest at a party she was giving.

He was drafted early in the fall, and the examining doctor made no mention of low blood-pressure. It was all very purposeless and sad when Anthony told Gloria one night that he wanted, above all things, to be killed. But, as always, they were sorry for each other for the wrong things at the wrong times…. They

He stared at her, and the impression of her beauty grew until, uncommitted by a word, by even a formal introduction, he felt himself going out toward her, watching the turn of her lips and the shifting of her cheeks when she smiled.

He was in love with every pretty woman he saw now, their forms at a distance, their shadows on a wall.

Çok genç ve toy günlerimde babam?n verdiÄŸi bir öÄŸüt akl?mdan hiç ç?kmad?. "?çinden ne zaman birini eleÅŸtirmek gelse," demiÅŸti, " bu dünyada herkesin senin sahip olduÄŸun üstünlüklerle doÄŸmad???n? an?msa, yeter.

Gloria had been sorry for him but she had judged it best not to show it. In a final burst of kindness she had tried to make him hate her, there at the last.

On the contrary. When a man speaks he's merely tradition. He has at best a few thousand years back of him. But woman, why, she is the miraculous mouthpiece of posterity.

that was true he must have felt that he had lost the old warm world, paid a high price for living too long with a single dream. He must have looked up at an unfamiliar sky through frightening leaves and shivered as he found what a grotesque thing a rose is and how raw the sunlight was upon the scarcely created grass. A

Technically excellent, perhaps, but not convincing.

In a good-natured way he had almost decided that Princeton was one part deadly Philistines and one part deadly grinds, and to find a person who could mention Keats without stammering, yet evidently washed his hands, was rather a treat.

La amorfa capacidad de impresionarse adquiere categoría bajo el nombre de temperamento creativo

No, Amory objected. I've lost half my personality in a year. Not a bit of it! scoffed Monsignor. You've lost a great amount of vanity and that's all.

Te mondod folyton, hogy az embernek egyre több dolgot kell megismernie, és ha ezt abbahagyja, olyan lesz, mint a többi ember, és hogy addig kell elérnie valamit, míg ezt a folytonos megismerést abba nem hagyja.

Sometimes she speaks of 'the past' as people speak who have been in prison. But you never know whether they refer to the crime or the imprisonment or the whole experience.

He was tempted to lean over and kiss away her tears.

Art is meaningless in itself. It isn't in that it tries to make life less so.

Now there was this scarcely saved waif of disaster bringing him the essence of a continent...

And, after all, an obsolete list. She was in love now, set for the eternal romance that was to be the synthesis of all romance, yet sad for these man and these moonlights and for the 'thrills' she had had – and the kisses. The past – her past, oh, what a joy! She had been exuberantly happy.