Sometimes it is harder to deprive oneself of a pain than of a pleasure. — F. Scott Fitzgerald, Tender Is the Night, ( Scribner; Reissue edition, July 1, 1995) Orginally published April 12th 1934.
It is sadder to find the past again and find it inadequate to the present than it is to have it elude you and remain forever a harmonious conception of memory. — F. Scott Fitzgerald, “Show Mr. and Mrs. F. to Number—,” The Crack-Up. New Directions; Reprint edition (February 27, 2009) Originally published 1936.
I don’t ask you to love me always like this, but I ask you to remember. Somewhere inside me there’ll always be the person I am to-night. — F. Scott Fitzgerald, Tender Is the Night. (Scribner; Reprint edition July 1, 1995) Originally published 1934.
And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer. ― F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby. (Charles Scribner’s Sons April 10, 1925)
Let it pass; April is over, April is over. There are all kinds of love in the world, but never the same love twice. —F. Scott Fitzgerald, from “The Sensible Thing,” The Sensible Thing. (Steel Guitar Publishing February 27th 2011) Originally pugblished in 1924.
There is a moment—Oh, just before the first kiss, a whispered word—something that makes it worthwhile. ― F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise. (Scribner March 26, 1920)
A love letter should come like a fresh stream from the heart, with no leaf on its current. — F. Scott Fitzgerald, “Image on the Heart.” Written in in September 1935 with the working titles “Finishing School” and “A Course in Languages.” After the Saturday Evening Post apparently declined it, it was finally published in… Continue reading F. Scott Fitzgerald
Suddenly she realized that what she was regretting was not the lost past but the lost future, not what had not been but what would never be. — F. Scott Fitzgerald, “A Nice Quiet Place,” The Saturday Evening Post (31 May, 1930)
She was only extemporizing but a stirring warmth flowed from her as if her heart was trying to come out to you concealed in one of those breathless, thrilling words. ― F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby. (Charles Scribner’s Sons April 10, 1925)
How the unforgettable faces of dusk would blend to her, the myriad footsteps, a thousand overtures, would blend to her footsteps; and there would be more drunkenness than wine in the softness of her eyes on his. —F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise. (Scribner March 26, 1920)