Zelda Fitzgerald was born 24 July 1900, and died 10 March 1948.
- Nobody has ever measured, not even poets, how much the heart can hold.
- By the time a person has achieved years adequate for choosing a direction, the die is cast and the moment has long since passed which determined the future.
- I love you anyway-even if there isn’t any me or any love or even any life – I love you.
- I don’t want to live. I want to love first, and live incidentally.
- I wish I could write a beautiful book to break those hearts that are soon to cease to exist: a book of faith and small neat worlds and of people who live by the philosophies of popular songs.
- Mr. Fitzgerald—I believe that is how he spells his name—seems to believe that plagiarism begins at home.
- Living is cold and technical without you, a death mask of itself.
- I remember every single spot of light that ever gouged a shadow beside your bones.
- Most people hew the battlements of life from compromise, erecting their impregnable keeps from judicious submissions, fabricating their philosophical drawbridges from emotional retractions and scalding marauders in the boiling oil of sour grapes.
- It is the loose ends with which men hang themselves.
Zelda Fitzgerald was an American novelist and the wife of writer F. Scott Fitzgerald. She was an icon of the 1920s and the couple spent much of their time in Europe. When the Fitzgeralds moved back to the United States, Zelda had another breakdown and entered Phipps Psychiatric Clinic in Baltimore, where she wrote her only novel, Save Me the Waltz.
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