You're a slave, a bound helpless slave to one thing in the world, your imagination. F. Scott Fitzgerald More Quotes by F. Scott Fitzgerald More Quotes From F. Scott Fitzgerald The faces of most American women over thirty are relief maps of petulant and bewildered unhappiness. F. Scott Fitzgerald mapsrelieffaces If you are strong enough, there are no precedents. F. Scott Fitzgerald successmotivationalinspirational France was a land, England was a people, but America, having about it still that quality of the idea, was harder to utter - it was the graves at Shiloh and the tired, drawn, nervous faces of its great men, and the country boys dying in the Argonne for a phrase that was empty before their bodies withered. It was a willingness of the heart. F. Scott Fitzgerald tiredheartcountry 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. F. Scott Fitzgerald eyeboyslying No one should live beyond 30. F. Scott Fitzgerald should My generation of radicals and breakers-down never found anything to take the place of the old virtues of work and courage and the old graces of courtesy and politeness. F. Scott Fitzgerald generationsvirtuegrace A writer's temperament is continually making him do things he can never repair. F. Scott Fitzgerald temperament Of all natural forces, vitality is the incommunicable one. . . . Vitality never "takes." You have it or you haven't it, like health or brown eyes or a baritone voice. F. Scott Fitzgerald vitalityvoiceeye I hope you live a life you're proud of... F. Scott Fitzgerald short-lifetough-timesproud For years afterwards when Amory thought of Eleanor he seemed still to hear the wind sobbing around him and sending little chills into the places beside his heart. The night when they rode up the slope and watched the cold moon float through the clouds, he lost a further part of him that nothing could restore; and when he lost it he lost also the power of regretting it. F. Scott Fitzgerald regretmoonheart he was figuratively following along beside her as she walked the fence, ready to catch her if she should fall. F. Scott Fitzgerald fenceshouldfall 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. F. Scott Fitzgerald inspiredlittlesworld Very well then, better a sane crook than a mad puritan. F. Scott Fitzgerald puritancrooksmad When Eleanor's arm touched his he felt his hands grow cold with deadly fear lest he should lose the shadow brush with which his imagination was painting wonders of her. He watched her from the corners of his eyes as ever he did when he walked with her-- she was a feast and a folly and he wished it had been his destiny to sit forever on a haystack and see life through her green eyes. F. Scott Fitzgerald destinyeyehands 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. F. Scott Fitzgerald dreamadventurenight We all must try to be good. F. Scott Fitzgerald be-goodtrying Intelligence is a mere instrument of circumstances. F. Scott Fitzgerald mereinstrumentscircumstances Men don’t often know those times when a girl could be had for nothing. F. Scott Fitzgerald girlknowsmen I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. F. Scott Fitzgerald great-gatsby-nickglimpseheart 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. From the western half of the sky the sun was shying little golden disks at the sea--if you gazed intently enough you could see them skip from wave tip to wave tip until they joined a broad collar of golden coin that was collecting half a mile out and would eventually be a dazzling sunset. F. Scott Fitzgerald eyedreamchildren
