The sun had gone down behind the tall apartments of the movie stars in the West Fifties, and the unclear voices of children, already gathered like crikets on the grass, rose through the hot twilight.
F. Scott FitzgeraldEvery author ought to write every book as if he were going to be beheaded the day he finished it.
F. Scott FitzgeraldOf the things they possessed in common, greatest of all was their almost uncanny pull at each others hearts.
F. Scott FitzgeraldThe Montana sunset lay between the mountains like a giant bruise from which darkened arteries spread across a poisoned sky.
F. Scott Fitzgerald