Zelda Fitzgerald (née Sayre; July 24, 1900 – March 10, 1948) was an American socialite, novelist, painter and wife of author F. Scott Fitzgerald.
Other people's ideas of us are dependent largely on what they've hoped for.
Spinach and champagne. Going back to the kitchens at the old Waldorf. Dancing on the kitchen tables, wearing the chef's headgear. Finally, a crash and being escorted out by the house detectives.
Love is bitter and all there is, and that the rest is for the emotional beggars of the earth.
I wish we could spend July by the sea, browning ourselves and feeling water-weighted hair flow behind us from a dive. I wish our gravest concerns were the summer gnats. I wish we were hungry for hot dogs and dopes, and it would be nice to smell the starch of summer linens and the faint odor of talc in blistering summer bath houses. . . We could lie in long citoneuse beams of the five o'clock sun on the plage at Juan-les-Pins and hear the sound of the drum and piano being scooped out to sea by the waves.
A southern moon is a sodden moon, and sultry. When it swamps the fields and the rustling sandy roads and the sticky honeysuckle hedges in its sweet stagnation, your fight to hold on to reality is like a protestation against a first waft of ether.
Death is the only real elegance.
Nothing annoys me more than having the most trivial action analyzed and explained.
Millie Beggs, by the time she was forty-five, had become an emotional anarchist.
She quietly expected great things to happen to her, and no doubt that’s one of the reasons why they did.
It is the loose ends with which men hang themselves.
There seemed to be some heavenly support beneath his shoulder blades that lifted his feet from the ground in ecstatic suspension, as if he secretly enjoyed the ability to fly but was walking as a compromise to convention.
It's terrible to allow conventional habits to gain a hold on a whole household; to eat, sleep and live by clock ticks.
People are like almanacs, Bonnie - you never can find the information you're looking for, but the casual reading is well worth the trouble.
I can't read or sleep. Without hope or youth or money I sit constantly wishing I were dead.
I take a sun bath and listen to the hours, formulating, and disintegrating under the pines, and smell the resiny hardihood of the high noon hours. The world is lost in a blue haze of distances, and the immediate sleeps in a thin and finite sun.
I love you, even if there isn’t any me, or any love, or even any life. I love you.
Maybe other people's ideas of us are truer than our own.
I don’t suppose I really know you very well - but I know you smell like the delicious damp grass that grows near old walls and that your hands are beautiful opening out of your sleeves and that the back of your head is a mossy sheltered cave when there is trouble in the wind and that my cheek just fits the depression in your shoulder.
Don't you think I was made for you? I feel like you had me ordered - and I was delivered to you - to be worn. I want you to wear me, like a watch-charm or a buttonhole bouquet.
Women sometimes seem to share a quiet, unalterable dogma of persecution that endows even the most sophisticated of them with the inarticulate poignancy of the peasant.