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F. Scott Fitzgerald Biography

F. Scott Fitzgerald

Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald (September 24, 1896 – December 21, 1940) was an American writer, whose works illustrate the Jazz Age. While he achieved limited success in his lifetime, he is now widely regarded as one of the greatest American writers of the 20th century. Fitzgerald is considered a member of the "Lost Generation" of the 1920s. He finished four novels: This Side of Paradise, The Beautiful and Damned, The Great Gatsby, and Tender Is the Night. A fifth, unfinished novel, The Last Tycoon, was published posthumously. Fitzgerald also authored four collections of short stories, as well as 164 short stories in magazines during his lifetime.

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F. Scott Fitzgerald Quotes

The helpless ecstasy of loosing himself in her charm was a powerful opiate rather than a tonic.

Charm, Ecstasy, Loosing, Opiates, Powerful

The years between thirty-five and sixty-five revolve before the passive mind as one unexplained, confusing merry-go-round. True, they are a merry-go-round of ill-gaited and wind-broken horses, painted first in pastel colors, then in dull grays and browns, but perplexing and intolerably dizzy the thing is, as never were the merry-go-rounds of childhood or adolescence; as never, surely, were the certain-coursed, dynamic roller-coasters of youth. For most men and women these thirty years are taken up with a gradual withdrawal from life.

Confusing, Horse, Men, Passive, Perplexing, Taken

Everywhere we go and move on and change, something's lost--something's left behind. You can't ever quite repeat anything, and I've been so yours, here--

Behind You, Everywhere, Lost, Move, Moving, Repeat

I felt a haunting loneliness sometimes, and felt it in others--young clerks in the dusk, wasting the most poignant moments of night and life.

Feeling Lonely, Loneliness, Moments, Night, Wasting

To have something to say is a question of sleepless nights and worry and endless ratiocination of subject - of endless trying to dig out the essential truth, the essential justice. As a first premise you have to develop a conscience and if on top of that you have talent so much the better. But if you have talent without the conscience, you are just one of many thousands of journalists.

Justice, Night, Say, Thousands, Worry

Intermittently she caught the gist of his sentences and supplied the rest from her subconscious, as one picks up the striking of a clock in the middle with only the rhythm of the first uncounted strokes lingering in the mind.

Firsts, Gist, Middle, Mind, Strokes, Supplied

The strongest guard is placed at the gateway to nothing. Maybe because the condition of emptiness is too shameful to be divulged.

Condition, Emptiness, Gateways, Nothing, Shameful, Tender Is The Night

Amory wondered how people could fail to notice that he was a boy marked for glory, and when faces of the throng turned toward him and ambiguous eyes stared into his, he assumed the most romantic of expressions and walked on the air cushions that lie on the asphalts of fourteen.

Amory, Boys, Eye, Lying, Notice, Walked

Human sympathy has its limits, and we were contented to let all their tragic arguments fade with the city lights behind.

Arguments, Cities, Contented, Human, Light, Limits

Their lips brushed like young wild flowers in the wind.

Brushed, Flower, Like, Lips, Wind

Young people do not perceive at once that the giver of wounds is the enemy and the quoted tattle merely the arrow.

Arrows, Enemy, People, Perceive, Tattle

Who would not be pleased at carrying lamps helpfully through the darkness?

Darkness, Helpfully, Lamps, Pleased

Writing is eternal, For therein the dead heart liveth, the clay-cold tongue is eloquent, And the quick eye of the reader is cleared by the reed of the scribe. As a fossil in the rock, or a coin in the mortar of a ruin, So the symbolled thoughts tell of a departed soul: The plastic hand hath its witness in a statue, and exactitude of vision in a picture, And so, the mind, that was among us, in its writings is embalmed.

Dead, Eternal, Eye, Heart, Vision, Writing

When the first-rate author wants an exquisite heroine or a lovely morning, he finds that all the superlatives have been worn shoddy by his inferiors. It should be a rule that bad writers must start with plain heroines and ordinary mornings, and, if they are able, work up to something better.

Morning, Lovely, Firsts, Rule, Heroine

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.

Children, Dream, Eye, Eyes, Story

At eighteen our convictions are hills from which we look; at forty-five they are caves in which we hide.

Caves, Convictions, Eighteen, Inspirational, Look, Looks

As we passed over the dark bridge her wan face fell lazily against my coat's shoulder and the formidable stroke of thirty died away with the reassuring pressure of her hand.

Against, Bridges, Dark, Died, Hands, Reassuring

Ours was a generation grown up to find all gods dead, all wars fought, all faiths in man shaken" --

Faiths, Generations, Gods, Men, Shaken, War

I've noticed that the children of other nations always seem precocious. That's because the strange manners of their elders have caught our attention most and the children echo those manners enough to seem like their parents.

Children, Echoes, Elders, Like, Parent, Parents

Nancy had a mouth like a remembered kiss.

Kiss, Kissing, Mouth, Mouths, Nancy, Remembered

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