F. Scott Fitzgerald

Think how you love me," she whispered. " 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.

You know I'm old in some ways-in others-well, I'm just a little girl. I like sunshine and pretty things and cheerfulness-and I dread responsibility.

I’ve been drunk for about a week now, and I thought it might sober me up to sit in a library.

I'm not sentimental--I'm as romantic as you are. The idea, you know,is that the sentimental person thinks things will last--the romanticperson has a desperate confidence that they won't.

I learned a little of beauty-- enough to know that it had nothing to do with truth...

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

I love her, and that's the beginning and end of everything.

Every one suspects himself of at least one of the cardinal virtues, and this is mine: I am one of the few honest people that I have ever known.

Later she remembered all the hours of the afternoon as happy -- one of those uneventful times that seem at the moment only a link between past and future pleasure, but turn out to have been the pleasure itself.

So he tasted the deep pain that is reserved only for the strong, just as he had tasted for a little while the deep happiness.

I wasn't actually in love, but I felt a sort of tender curiosity.

I hope she'll be a fool -- that's the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.

I fell in love with her courage, her sincerity, and her flaming self respect. And it's these things I'd believe in, even if the whole world indulged in wild suspicions that she wasn't all she should be. I love her and it is the beginning of everything.

An artist is someone who can hold two opposing viewpoints and still remain fully functional.

It was only a sunny smile, and little it cost in the giving, but like morning light it scattered the night and made the day worth living.

Actually that’s my secret — I can’t even talk about you to anybody because I don’t want any more people to know how wonderful you are.

It was always the becoming he dreamed of, never the being.

Was it the infinite sadness of her eyes that drew him or the mirror of himself that he found in the gorgeous clarity of her mind?