But with every word she was drawing further and further into herself, so he gave that up, and only the dead dream fought on as the afternoon slipped away, trying to touch what was no longer tangible, struggling unhappily, undespairingly, toward that lost voice across the room.
F. Scott FitzgeraldThereโs a writer for you,โ he said. โKnows everything and at the same time he knows nothing.โ [narrator]It was my first inkling that he was a writer. And while I like writersโbecause if you ask a writer anything you usually get an answerโstill it belittled him in my eyes. Writers arenโt people exactly. Or, if theyโre any good, theyโre a whole lot of people trying so hard to be one person. Itโs like actors, who try so pathetically not to look in mirrors. Who lean backward tryingโonly to see their faces in the reflecting chandeliers.
F. Scott FitzgeraldIt is not merely enough to have the ability to be persistant, you must also have the ability to start over.
F. Scott FitzgeraldProgress was a labyrinth ... people plunging blindly in and then rushing wildly back, shouting that they had found it ... the invisible king-the รฉlan vital-the principle of evolution ... writing a book, starting a war, founding a school.
F. Scott FitzgeraldAs he took her hand she saw him look her over from head to foot, a gesture she recognized and that made her feel at home, but gave her always a faint feeling of superiority to whoever made it. If her person was property she could exercise whatever advantage was inherent in its ownership.
F. Scott Fitzgerald