Zelda Quotes

Nobody has ever measured, not even poets, how much the heart can hold.

She refused to be bored chiefly because she wasn't boring.

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

I don't want to live, I want to love first and live incidentally.

I love you, even if there isn’t any me, or any love, or even any life. I love you.

She quietly expected great things to happen to her, and no doubt that’s one of the reasons why they did.

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.

Excuse me for being so intellectual. I know you would prefer something nice and feminine and affectionate.

I am really only myself when I'm somebody else whom I have endowed with these wonderful qualities from my imagination.

It is the loose ends with which men hang themselves.

Thanks again for saving me. Someday, I’ll save you too.

I remember every single spot of light that ever gouged a shadow beside your bones.

All I want to be is very young always and very irresponsible and to feel that my life is my own-to live and be happy and die in my own way to please myself

I don’t suppose I really know you very well - but I know you smell like the delicious damp grass that grows near old walls and that your hands are beautiful opening out of your sleeves and that the back of your head is a mossy sheltered cave when there is trouble in the wind and that my cheek just fits the depression in your shoulder.

isn't it funny how danger makes people passionate?

The trouble with emergencies is," she said, "that I always put on my finest underwear and then nothing happens.

I love you anyway-even if there isn't any me or any love or even any life- I love you.

Something in me vibrates to a dusky, dreamy smell of dying moons and shadows.

without you, dearest dearest I couldn't see or hear or feel or think - or live - I love you so and I'm never in all our lives going to let us be apart another night.

She refused to be bored chiefly because she wasn't boring." -Zelda Fitzgerald

Why is there happiness and comfort and excitement where you are and no where else in the world?

The night you gave me my birthday party... you were a young Lieutenant and I was a fragrant phantom, wasn't I? And it was a radiant night, a night of soft conspiracy and the trees agreed that it was all going to be for the best.

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.

If only people could travel as easily as words. Wouldn't that be something? If only we could be so easily revised.

Nothing could have survived our life.

We grew up founding our dreams on the infinite promise of American advertising. I still believe that one can learn to play the piano by mail and that mud will give you a perfect complexion.

memories should be sharp when one has nothing else to live for

Remember when we had trouble beating the last few levels of Zelda? We pooled our allowances and bought the walk-through guide to help us out.' He softly adds, 'You should've asked for help before cheating.

I’m so damn glad I love you – I wouldn’t love any other man on earth – I b’lieve if I had deliberately decided on a sweetheart, he’d have been you.

I dont' want to live - I want to love first, and live incidentally.

Death is the only real elegance.

This game's stupid," said Lief. "Who the heck is Zelda, anyway?

Marry me, Zelda. We'll make it all up as we go. What do you say?

Won’t we be quite the pair?—you with your bad heart, me with my bad head. Together, though, we might have something worthwhile.

I wish we could spend July by the sea, browning ourselves and feeling water-weighted hair flow behind us from a dive. I wish our gravest concerns were the summer gnats. I wish we were hungry for hot dogs and dopes, and it would be nice to smell the starch of summer linens and the faint odor of talc in blistering summer bath houses ... We could lie in long citoneuse beams of the five o'clock sun on the plage at Juan-les-Pins and hear the sound of the drum and piano being scooped out to sea by the waves.

There seemed to be some heavenly support beneath his shoulder blades that lifted his feet from the ground in ecstatic suspension, as if he secretly enjoyed the ability to fly but was walking as a compromise to convention.

I play the radio and moon about...and dream of Utopias where its always July the 24th 1935, in the middle of summer forever.

How in the world can you think a queer is cute? I mean, you can tell he’s a freak. You can just tell.” I advised Zelda that if she didn’t shut up, I’d gouge out her eyes and force her to swallow them.

Sometimes I don't know whether Zelda and I are real or just characters in one of my novels.

My dear, I think of you always and at night I build myself a warm nest of things I remember and float in your sweetness till morning.

I am the Hero of Time. No matter where or when I am, I will fight for Hyrule... and for Princess Zelda.

Father said conflict develops the character

I don’t want to live— 
I want to love first, and live…incidentally.

It's all life is. Just going 'round kissing people.

Uno scrittore non vive la vita come se questa gli cadesse addosso dal cielo, ma prevede e disegna ogni istante con metodo e precisione. Scoperchia e studia il mondo alla ricerca del congegno che lo fa funzionare, per poterlo sovvertire. Non gli interessa veramente chi sei e cosa fai, ma quanto materiale emozionale puoi fornirgli, quanta parte di te può trovare spazio, e in che modo, all'interno della sua opera.

I'll drink your champagne. I'll drink every drop of it, I don't care if it kills me.

Your photograph is all I have: it is with me from the morning when I wake up with a frantic half dream about you to the last moment when I think of you and of death at night.

And only weaklings...who lack courage and the power to feel they're right when the whole world says they're wrong, ever lose.

All these soft, warm nights going to waste when I ought to be lying in your arms under the moon - the dearest arms in all the world - darling arms that I love to feel around me - How much longer - before they’ll be there to stay? When I do get home again, you’ll certainly have a most awful time ever moving me one inch from you.

nobody hαs ever meαsured, not even poets, how much the heαrt cαn hold.

People are like almanacs, Bonnie - you never can find the information you're looking for, but the casual reading is well worth the trouble.

Never miss a party...good for the nerves--like celery.

They had created themselves together, and they always saw themselves, their youth, their love, their lost youth and lost love, their failures and memories, as a sort of living fiction.

Well, I suggest you sleep on it," said Aunt Zelda sensibly. "Things always look better in the morning.

The Great Gatsby's my favorite book," he says. "F. Scott Fitzgerald dedicated it to Zelda." "His wife?" I say. "Yeah. His crazy-ass wife who he had no business loving that much," he says, giving me a loaded look. "You know what their joint epitaph says? It's a quote from the book... Their kid picked it for them." I shake my head. "What's it say?" His eyes close halfway as he recites, "So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

I want you to lie to me just as sweetly as you know how for the rest of my life.

There’s nothing in all the world I want but you and your precious love. All the material things are nothing. I’d just hate to live a sordid, colorless existence because you’d soon love me less and less and I’d do anything — anything — to keep your heart for my own. I don’t want to live—I want to love first, and live incidentally… Don’t—don’t ever think of the things you can’t give me. You’ve trusted me with the dearest heart of all—and it’s so damn much more than anybody else in all the world has ever had.

Emptying the ashtrays was very expressive of myself. I just lump everything in a great heap which I have labeled ‘the past,’ and having thus emptied this deep reservoir that was once myself, I am ready to continue.

But I warn you, I am only really myself when I’m somebody else whom I have endowed with these wonderful qualities from my imagination.

Life has puffed and blown itself into a summer day, and clouds and spring billow over the heavens as if calendars were a listing of mathematical errors.

There's nothing like losing yourself in someone else's troubles to make you forget your own.

We walked at night towards a cafe blooming with Japanese lanterns and I followed your white shoes gleaming like radium in the damp darkness. Rising off the water, lights flickered an invitation far enough away to be interpreted as we liked; to shimmer glamourously behind the silhouette of retrospective good times when we still believed in summer hotels and the philosophies of popular songs.

Those men think I’m purely decorative, and they’re fools for not knowing better.

A southern moon is a sodden moon, and sultry. When it swamps the fields and the rustling sandy roads and the sticky honeysuckle hedges in its sweet stagnation, your fight to hold on to reality is like a protestation against a first waft of ether.

Adventure:' there's a word that worked on us both like a charm.

I am really only myself when I’m somebody else whom I have endowed with these wonderful qualities from my imagination.

Look at history,” Eva continued, rubbing a temple. “Roxanne Shanté out-rapping grown men at fourteen. Serena winning the US Open at seventeen. Mary Shelley writing Frankenstein at eighteen. Josephine Baker conquering Paris at nineteen. Zelda Fitzgerald’s high school diary was so fire that her future husband stole entire passages to write The Great Gatsby. The eighteenth-century poet Phillis Wheatley published her first piece at fourteen, while enslaved. Joan of Arc. Greta Thunberg. Teen girls rearrange the fucking world.

He smiled then, and I felt that smile like a vibration moving through me, the way you might feel if you walked through a ghost or it walked through you.

She is the most charming person in the world. That’s all. I refuse to amplify. Excepting- she’s perfect.

Oh, we are going to be so happy away from all the things that almost got us but couldn't quite because we were too smart for them!

I believed I was a salamander, and it seems I am nothing but an impediment.

Quello che rende sopportabile il giorno è che infine arriva sempre la notte, a legittimare le nostre bugie.

It seems to me that on one page I recognized a portion of an old diary of mine which mysteriously disappeared shortly after my marriage, and, also, scraps of letters which, though considerably edited, sound to me vaguely familiar. In fact, Mr. Fitzgerald (I believe that is how he spells his name) seems to believe that plagiarism begins at home.

Being in love, she concluded, is simply the presentation of our pasts to another individual, mostly packages so unwieldy that we can no longer manage the loosened strings alone. Looking for love is like asking for a new point of departure, she thought, another chance in life.

Being in love, she concluded, is simply a presentation of our pasts to another individual, mostly packages so unwieldy that we can no longer manage the loosened strings alone.

I suppose all we can really share with people is a taste for the same kinds of weather.

Mr. Fitzgerald is a novelist and Mrs. Fitzgerald is a novelty

Living is cold and technical without you, a death mask of itself.

There was no way to know that certainty would one day become a luxury, too.

The sky lay over the city like a map showing the strata of things and the big full moon toppled over in a furrow like the abandoned wheel of a gun carriage on a sunset field of battle and the shadows walked like cats and I looked into the white and ghostly interior of things and thought of you and I looked on their structural outsides and thought of you and was lonesome.

Nothing except luck protects you from catastrophe. Not love. Not money. Not faith. Not a pure heart or good deeds--and not bad ones either, for that matter. We can, any of us, be laid low, cut down, diminished, destroyed.

This was Scott. This is Scott, always looking back to try to figure out how to go forward, where happiness and prosperity must surely await.

A volte è sufficiente omettere una parte della verità per creare una bugia.

A sword wields no strength unless the hand that holds it has courage

She felt the essence of herself pulled finer and smaller like those streams of spun glass that pull and stretch till there remains but a glimmering illusion. Neither falling nor breaking, the stream spins finer. She felt herself very small and ecstatic. Alabama was in love.

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.

Something may be a sort of fulfillment of yourself, and it may not be great to other people, but it is just as essential to yourself as if it is a great masterpiece.

Maybe I’m getting tired – I can’t think of anything but nights with you. I want them warm and silvery.

The night you gave me my birthday party… you were a young Lieutenant and I was a fragrant phantom, wasn’t I? And it was a radiant night, a night of soft conspiracy and the trees agreed that it was all going to be for the best.

If the river has a soul, it's a peaceful one. If it has a lesson to impart, that lesson is patience. There will be drought, it says; there will be floods; the ice will form, the ice will melt; the water will flow and blend into the river's brackish mouth, then join the ocean between Lewes and Cape May, endlessly, forever, amen.

He told me how he had first met her during the war and then lost her and won her back, and about their marriage and then about something tragic that had happened to them at St-Raphael about a year ago. This first version that he told me of Zelda . and a French naval aviator falling in love was truly a sad story and I believe it was a true story. Later he told me other versions of it as though trying them for use in a novel, but none was as sad as this first one and I always believed the first one, although any of them might have been true. They were better told each time; but they never hurt you the same way the first one did.

... while I bathed, while I tried but failed to sleep, I considered how I might become more like the women I respected and admired. Surrounded as I was by ambitious, accomplished women, I couldn't ignore the little voice in my head that said maybe I was supposed to shed halfway, and do something significant. Contribute something. Accomplish something. Choose. Be.

When I had finished the book I knew that no matter what Scott did, nor how he behaved, I must know it was like a sickness and be of any help I could to him and try to be a good friend. He had many good, good friends, more than anyone I knew. But I enlisted as one more, whether I could be of any use to him or not. If he could write a book as fine as The Great Gatsby I was sure that he could write an even better one. I did not know Zelda yet, and so I did not know the terrible odds that were against him. But we were to find them out soon enough.

Christ. No, not Christ. These leavings were made in propitiation of a much older God than the Christian one. People have called Him different things at different times, but Rachel’s sister gave Him a perfectly good name, I think: Oz the Gweat and Tewwible, God of dead things left in the ground, God of rotting flowers in drainage ditches, God of the Mystery.

Everybody gives you belief for the asking,' she said to David, 'and so few people give you anything more to believe in than your own belief - just not letting you down, that's all. Its so hard to find a person who accepts responsibilities beyond what you ask.' 'So easy to be loved - so hard to love.' David answered

No personality as strong as Zelda’s could go without getting criticisms and as you say she is not above reproach. I've always known that. Any girl who gets stewed in public, who frankly enjoys and tells shocking stories, who smokes constantly and makes the remark that she has “kissed thousands of men and intends to kiss thousands more,” cannot be considered beyond reproach even if above it. But Isabelle 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 that she should be. But of course the real reason, Isabelle, is that I love her and that’s the beginning and end of everything. You’re still a Catholic but Zelda’s the only God I have left now.

Why do we like these stories so? Why do we tell them over and over? Why have we made a folk hero of a man who is the antithesis of all our official heroes, a haunted millionaire out of the West, trailing a legend of desperation and power and white sneakers? But then we have always done that. Our favorite people and our favorite stories become so not by any inherent virtue, but because they illustrate something deep in the grain, something unadmitted. Shoeless Joe Jackson, Warren Gamaliel Harding, The Titanic: how the might are fallen. Charles Lindbergh, Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald, Marilyn Monroe: the beautiful and damned. And Howard Hughes. That we have made a hero of Howard Hughes tells us something interesting about ourselves, something only dimly remembered, tells us that the secret point of money and power in AMerica is neither the things that money can buy nor power for power's sake (Americans are uneasy with their possessions, guilty about power, all of which is difficult for Europeans to perceive because they are themselves so truly materialistic, so versed in the uses of power), but absolute personal freedom, mobility, privacy. Is is the instinct which drove America to the Pacific, all through the nineteenth century, the desire to be able to find a restaurant open in case you want a sandwich, to be a free agent, live by one's own rules.

You and I have been happy; we haven’t been happy just once, we’ve been happy a thousand times. The chances that spring, that’s for everyone, like in the popular songs, may belong to us too – the chances are pretty bright at this time because as usual, I can carry most of contemporary literary opinion, liquidated, in the hollow of my hand – and when I do, I see the swan floating on it and – I find it to be you and you only…. Forget the past – what you can of it, and turn about and swim back home to me, to your haven for ever and ever – even though it may seem a dark cave at times and lit with torches of fury; it is the best refuge for you – turn gently in the waters through which you move and sail back…

Attorno a noi ci sono colori che prima non avevo mai notato. Il blu dei pavimenti. L’azzurro degli infissi. Il giallo ocra nelle ombre. Le sfumature viola sui soffitti, e dentro agli occhi della gente. Gli aloni verdi dei nostri destini. E le sbarre: all’improvviso sono dappertutto. Sulle porte, alle finestre, tra i nostri comuni pensieri. Il vecchio frenocomio non mi era mai sembrato tanto vivo, e presente, come da quando abbiamo ucciso il suo passato. Prima, gli echi delle sue storie erano molto più forti. Adesso, le nostre vi si sono sovrapposte. Difficile stabilire a chi appartengano le grida che si odono di notte. Mi chiedo se forse non siamo tutti connessi – noi, che restiamo, e coloro che hanno perso l’occasione per andare – nel nostro sentirci dimenticati da chi amiamo. Ma forse è solo quello che succede in ogni parte della terra. In fondo, siamo tutti prigionieri di qualcosa. Di una stanza. Di noi stessi. Non c’è peggior luogo di reclusione di un cuore abbandonato. E non c’è peggiore abbandono di quello di chi si abbandona da solo.

In un altro tempo io ero il falco e vivevo di giorno: della vita vedevo le luci. Lui era il lupo e viveva di notte: della vita vedeva le ombre. Io ero sempre in ritardo, mentre lui correva alla velocità del suono. Com’è logico supporre, non ci saremmo mai potuti incontrare, se non si fosse creato uno squarcio nel tempo per cui ci trovammo nello stesso luogo nell’istante in cui io non ero ancora un falco, e lui aveva già smesso di essere un lupo. Per ventiquattro ore appena sovvertimmo l’ordine del tempo, finché il giorno divenne notte e la notte divenne giorno, e il falco vide attraverso le ombre, senza esserne aggredito, e il lupo guardò verso la luce, senza esserne accecato. Poi io mi rituffai nella lentezza dei miei giorni, e lui riprese a correre nella frenesia delle sue notti. E ora vorrei non desiderare di ricondurlo dentro al mondo insieme a me. Vorrei non osservare ogni suo gesto segreto cercando di capire se posso accettare quella segretezza dentro la mia vita, e conoscere già la risposta. Vorrei non provare vergogna di me stessa al pensiero che lui non mi avrebbe ancora chiesto niente di tutto questo. Mi fa rabbia la sua lucida follia, che sottintende un coraggio più grande del mio. Ci vuole coraggio per essere pazzi, perché il mondo non ce lo permette.