Francis Scott Fitzgerald

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

Francis Scott Fitzgerald Quotes

  • ''Cut out all these exclamation points. An exclamation point is like laughing at your own joke.''
    F. Scott Fitzgerald (1896-1940), U.S. author. Quoted in Sheilah Graham and Gerold Frank, Beloved Infidel, ch. 18 (1958).
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  • ''My idea is always to reach my generation. The wise writer ... writes for the youth of his own generation, the critics of the next, and the schoolmasters of ever afterward.''
    F. Scott Fitzgerald (1896-1940), U.S. author. repr. In Matthew J. Bruccoli, Some Sort of Epic Grandeur, ch. 16 (1981). "Self-interview," New York Tribune (May 7, 1920). The interview was later used by Fitzgerald in The Author's Apology—a letter to the American Booksellers Convention (May 1920).
  • ''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 (1896-1940), U.S. author, and Zelda Fitzgerald (1900-1948), U.S. writer. First published in Esquire (New York, June 1934). "Show Mr. and Mrs. F to Number—," The Crack-Up, ed. Edmund Wilson (1945).
  • ''Eighteen might look at thirty-four through a rising mist of adolescence; but twenty-two would see thirty-eight with discerning clarity.''
    F. Scott Fitzgerald (1896-1940), U.S. author. Tender Is the Night, bk. 2, ch. 19 (1934).
  • ''Her body calculated to a millimeter to suggest a bud yet guarantee a flower.''
    F. Scott Fitzgerald (1896-1940), U.S. author. Tender Is the Night, bk. 1, ch. 24 (1934). Of Rosemary Hoyt.
  • ''To write it, it took three months; to conceive it three minutes; to collect the data in it—all my life.''
    F. Scott Fitzgerald (1896-1940), U.S. author. A letter to the Booksellers' Convention, April 1920. The Author's Apology, The Letters of F. Scott Fitzgerald, ed. Andrew Turnbull (1963). Referring to his novel This Side of Paradise.
  • ''The faces of most American women over thirty are relief maps of petulant and bewildered unhappiness.''
    F. Scott Fitzgerald (1896-1940), U.S. author. letter, later dated Oct. 5, 1940, to his daughter Frances Scott Fitzgerald. The Crack-Up, ed. Edmund Wilson (1945).
  • ''When he urinated, it sounded like night prayer.''
    F. Scott Fitzgerald (1896-1940), U.S. author. The Crack-Up, "Notebook M," ed. Edmund Wilson (1945).
  • ''I am not a great man, but sometimes I think the impersonal and objective equality of my talent and the sacrifices of it, in pieces, to preserve its essential value has some sort of epic grandeur.''
    F. Scott Fitzgerald (1896-1940), U.S. author. Letter, 1940, to his daughter Frances Scott Fitzgerald. The Crack-Up, ed. Edmund Wilson (1945). The words "some sort of epic grandeur" were used by Matthew J. Bruccoli as a title for his 1981 biography of Fitzgerald.
  • ''Advertising is a racket, like the movies and the brokerage business. You cannot be honest without admitting that its constructive contribution to humanity is exactly minus zero.''
    F. Scott Fitzgerald (1896-1940), U.S. author. Letter, August 24, 1940, to his daughter Frances Scott Fitzgerald. The Crack-Up, ed. Edmund Wilson (1945).

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Best Poem of Francis Scott Fitzgerald

City Dusk

COME out . . . . out
To this inevitable night of mine
Oh you drinker of new wine,
Here's pageantry . . . . Here's carnival,
Rich dusk, dim streets and all
The whispering of city night . . . .

I have closed my book of fading harmonies,
(The shadows fell across me in the park)
And my soul was sad with violins and trees,
And I was sick for dark,
When suddenly it hastened by me, bringing
Thousands of lights, a haunting breeze,
And a night of streets and singing . . . .

I shall know you by your eager feet
And by your pale, pale hair;...

Read the full of City Dusk

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,

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