Thanks again for saving me. Someday, I'll save you too.
Catalog
Zelda Fitzgerald
Zelda Fitzgerald (/ˈzɛldə fɪtsˈdʒɛrəld/, née Sayre; July 24, 1900 – March 10, 1948) was a novelist, American socialite, and the wife of American author F. Scott Fitzgerald. Born in Montgomery, Alabama, she was noted for her beauty and high spirits, and was dubbed by her husband as "the first American Flapper". She and Scott became emblems of the Jazz Age, for which they are still celebrated. The immediate success of Scott's first novel This Side of Paradise (1920) brought them into contact with high society, but their marriage was plagued by wild drinking, infidelity and bitter recriminations. Ernest Hemingway, whom Zelda disliked, blamed her for Scott's declining literary output, though her extensive diaries provided much material for his fiction. After being diagnosed with manic depression, she was increasingly confined to specialist clinics, and the couple were living apart when Scott died suddenly in 1940. Zelda died 7 years later in a fire at her hospital in Asheville, North Carolina. A 1970 biography by Nancy Milford was on the short list of contenders for the Pulitzer Prize. In 1992, Zelda was inducted into the Alabama Women's Hall of Fame. Her life was dramatized in the 2017 TV series Z: The Beginning of Everythin
All these soft, warm nights going to waste when I ought to be lying in your arms under the moon.
And theres always my infinite love—You are a sweet person—the sweetest and dearest of all and I love you as I love my vanished youth— which is as much as a human heart can hold— filled with copper clouds like the after-math of cannon-fire, pre-war, civil-war clouds and I feel all empty and bored and…
Goodnight dear. If you were in my bed it might be the back of your head I was touching, where the hair is short, or it might be up in the front where it makes little caves above your head. But wherever it was, it would be the sweetest place, the sweetest place.
I love you, even if there isn’t any me, or any love, or even any life. I love you.
You're a necessity and a luxury...
I love you, even if there isn’t any me, or any love, or even any life. I love you.
Goofy, my darling, hasn’t it been a lovely day? I woke up this morning and then sun was lying like a birth-day parcel on my table so I opened it up and so many happy things went fluttering into the air: love to Doo-do and the remembered feel of our skins cool against each other in other mornings…
Darling heart, our fairy tale is almost ended, and we’re going to marry and live happily ever afterward just like the princess in the tower who worried you so much—and made me so very cross by her constant recurrence — I'm so sorry for all the times I've been mean and hateful — for all the miserable…
And theres always my infinite love—You are a sweet person—the sweetest and dearest of all and I love you as I love my vanished youth— which is as much as a human heart can hold— filled with copper clouds like the after-math of cannon-fire, pre-war, civil-war clouds and I feel all empty and bored and…
You are the only person on earth, Lover, who has ever known and loved all of me — Men love me 'cause I'm pretty — and they're always afraid of mental wickedness — and men love 'cause I'm clever, and they're always afraid of my prettines — One or two have even loved me 'cause I'm lovable, and then of…
I don’t see how you can carry around as much love as I have given you.