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 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.
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.
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.
She quietly expected great things to happen to her, and no doubt that’s one of the reasons why they did.
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
Isn't it funny how danger makes people passionate?
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.
The trouble with emergencies is," she said, "that I always put on my finest underwear and then nothing happens.
Excuse me for being so intellectual. I know you would prefer something nice and feminine and affectionate.
Thanks again for saving me. Someday, I’ll save you too.
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.
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
Something in me vibrates to a dusky, dreamy smell of dying moons and shadows.
She refused to be bored chiefly because she wasn't boring." -Zelda Fitzgerald
Death is the only real elegance.
Nothing could have survived our life.
I play the radio and moon about...and dream of Utopias where its always July the 24th 1935, in the middle of summer forever.
Why is there happiness and comfort and excitement where you are and no where else in the world?
Father said conflict develops the character
And only weaklings...who lack courage and the power to feel they're right when the whole world says they're wrong, ever lose.
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.
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.
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.
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.
I believed I was a salamander, and it seems I am nothing but an impediment.
I don’t want to live— I want to love first, and live…incidentally.
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.
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.
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!
Living is cold and technical without you, a death mask of itself.
We get something to do and as soon as we've got it, it gets us.
I suppose all we can really share with people is a taste for the same kinds of weather.
We quarreled in the gray morning dew about morals; and made up over a red bathing suit.
They hadn't much faith in travel, nor a great belief in a change of scene as a panacea for spiritual ills; they were simply glad to be going.
. . . she tried to weave the strength of her father and the young beauty of her first love with David, the happy oblivion of her teens and her warm protected childhood into a magic cloak.
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.
Paris is a pen-and-ink drawing before nine o’clock.
I do not want to live. I want to love and then to live, incidentally.
Nobody has ever measured, not even poets, how much the hearth can hold.
She wished she could help David to seem more legitimate. She wished she could do something to keep everything from being so undignified. Life seemed so uselessly extravagant.
Why should all life be work, when we all can borrow? Let's think only of today, and not worry about tomorrow.
