Francis Scott Fitzgerald

((1896 - 1940) / Saint Paul, Minnesota, United States)

Francis Scott Fitzgerald
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Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald (September 24, 1896 – December 21, 1940) was an American author of novels and short stories, whose works are the paradigm writings of the Jazz Age, a term he coined himself. He is 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, Tender Is the Night, and his most famous, The Great Gatsby. A fifth, unfinished novel, The Love of the Last Tycoon, was published posthumously. Fitzgerald also wrote many short stories that treat themes of youth and promise along with despair and ... more »

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  • ''Grown up, and that is a terribly hard thing to do. It is much easier to skip it and go from one childhood to another.''
    F. Scott Fitzgerald (1896-1940), U.S. author. "Notebook E," The Crack-Up, ed. Edmund Wilson (1945).
  • ''Genius goes around the world in its youth incessantly apologizing for having large feet. What wonder that later in life it should be inclined to raise those feet too swiftly to fools and bores.''
    F. Scott Fitzgerald (1896-1940), U.S. author. "Notebook E," The Crack-Up, ed. Edmund Wilson (1945).
  • ''Vitality shows in not only the ability to persist but the ability to start over.''
    F. Scott Fitzgerald (1896-1940), U.S. author. "Notebook E," The Crack-Up, ed. Edmund Wilson (1945).
  • ''Her unselfishness came in pretty small packages well wrapped.''
    F. Scott Fitzgerald (1896-1940), U.S. author. "Notebook E," The Crack-Up, ed. Edmund Wilson (1945).
  • ''No grand idea was ever born in a conference, but a lot of foolish ideas have died there.''
    F. Scott Fitzgerald (1896-1940), U.S. author. "Notebook E," The Crack-Up, ed. Edmund Wilson (1945).
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Best Poem of Francis Scott Fitzgerald

We Leave To-Night

WE leave to-night . . .
Silent, we filled the still, deserted street,
A column of dim gray,
And ghosts rose startled at the muffled beat
Along the moonless way;
The shadowy shipyards echoed to the feet
That turned from night and day.

And so we linger on the windless decks,
See on the spectre shore
Shades of a thousand days, poor gray-ribbed wrecks . . .
Oh, shall we then deplore
Those futile years!

See how the sea is white!
The clouds have broken and the heavens burn
To hollow highways, paved with gravelled light
The ...

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