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

Princeton - The Last Day

THE last light wanes and drifts across the land,
The low, long land, the sunny land of spires.
The ghosts of evening tune again their lyres
And wander singing, in a plaintive band
Down the long corridors of trees. Pale fires
Echo the night from tower top to tower.
Oh sleep that dreams and dream that never tires,
Press from the petals of the lotus-flower
Something of this to keep, the essence of an hour!

No more to wait the twilight of the moon
In this sequestrated vale of star and spire;
For one, eternal morning of desire
Passes to time and ...

Read the full of Princeton - The Last Day

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)

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