It was pleasant to drive back to the hotel in the late afternoon, above a sea as mysteriously colored as the agates and cornelians of childhood, green as green milk, blue as laundry water, wine dark.
Who would not be pleased at carrying lamps helpfully through the darkness?
I couldn't forgive him or like him, but I saw that what he had done was, to him, entirely justified. It was all very careless and confused. They were careless people, Tom and Daisy-they smashed up things and creatures and then retreated back into their money or their vast carelessness, or whatever it was that kept them together, and let other people clean up the mess they had made.
So I walked away and left him standing there in the moonlight - watching over nothing.
She smiled at him, making sure that the smile gathered up everything inside her and directed it toward him, making him a profound promise of herself for so little, for the beat of a response, the assurance of a complimentary vibration in him.
At the gray tea hour there were always rooms that throbbed incessantly with this low, sweet fever, while fresh faces drifted here and there like rose petals blown by the sad horns around the floor.
I wasn't actually in love, but I felt a sort of tender curiosity.
The transition from libertine to prig was so complete.
He was so terrible that he was no longer terrible, only dehumanized.
Their point of resemblance to each other and their difference from so many American women, lay in the fact that they were all happy to exist in a man's world--they preserved their individuality through men and not by opposition to them. They would all three have made alternatively good courtesans or good wives not by the accident of birth but through the greater accident of finding their man or not finding him.
He had been full of the idea so long, dreamed it right through to the end, waited with his teeth set, so to speak, at an inconceivable pitch of intensity. Now, in the reaction, he was running down like an overwound clock.
Life is much more successfully looked at from a single window.
We drove over to Fifth Avenue, so warm and soft, almost pastoral, on the summer Sunday afternoon that I wouldn't have been surprised to see a great flock of white sheep turn the corner.
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.
You're the only girl I've seen for a long time that actually did look like something blooming.
I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart.
So my first impression, that he was a person of some undefined consequence, had gradually faded and he had become simply the proprietor of an elaborate road-house next door.
She smiled, a moving childish smile that was like all the lost youth in the world.
At this point Jordan and I tried to go, but Tom and Gatsby insisted with competitive firmness that we remain - as though neither of them had anything to conceal and it would be a privilege to partake vicariously of their emotions.
If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him
The words seemed to bite physically into Gatsby.
Her beauty climbed the rolling slope, it came into the room, rustling ghost-like through the curtains...
Then he put in a call for Nicole in Zurich, remembering so many things as he waited, and wishing he had always been as good as he had intended to be.
He had come a long way to this blue lawn, and his dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it.
Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall.
What was it up there in the song that seemed to be calling her back inside? What would happen now in the dim, incalculable hours?
Like so many men he had found that he had only one or two ideas - that his little collection of pamphlets now in its fiftieth German edition contained the germ of all he would ever think or know.
A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up towards the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea.
I hope she'll be a fool -- that's the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.
So we beat on, boats agains the current. Borne back ceaselessly into the past.
More F. Scott Fitzgerald Quotations (Based on Topics)
World - Life - Man - People - Love - Mind - Youth - Sadness - Abilities - Movies - Past - Emotions - Water - Fool - Respect - God - Business & Commerce - Defeats - Idea - View All F. Scott Fitzgerald Quotations
More F. Scott Fitzgerald Quotations (By Book Titles)
- Tender is the Night
- The Great Gatsby
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