F Scott Fitzgerald Quotes Novels & Stories

“Listen to me. Yer, a braw lad who kills people for a living. Don’t tell me that yer scared of expressing yer feelings for a wee lass. Yer head is full of mince if ye don’t try.” Exhaling deeply, I remove my suit jacket and roll up my sleeves. Scotty follows me with an intent stare. He can be stubborn when he gets an idea in his head. Quirking a brow, I gesture for him to take a seat on the black leather couch while I try to decipher his words.

He sits across from me, sipping what I can only imagine is very strong coffee, from the fragrance. “Tall, black coffee?” I guess. “Got it in one. Didn’t know you were a psychic too. Is that what you’re doing on those ‘long walks on the beach’?” Scott teases me. I groan and drop my head on my arm. “Don’t remind me. Tell me she took out the partying bit?”

I shook my head and went to sit across Audrey. She was laughing at the quotes on the wall. “These are hilarious,” she said, reading one aloud: ‘I don’t need you to brag about me, I just don’t want you to deny me in front of people. – FART!’ Her laughter burst out, filling the café. I just stared, completely captivated. Every laugh, every sparkle in her eyes, it was contagious. “Here’s another one!” she giggled. ‘What a life! Eggs every single day… eggs, eggs, eggs… Do you know who said that?’ Her eyes gleamed mischievously.

One final light in the depths of my miserable end. I watched my words penetrate his measly excuse for a brain. “There’s nothing more dangerous than someone who has nothing to live for,” I said. “Believe me, I’ll kill you quite happily on my way out. I’ll be leaving anyway.” Scottie didn’t speak after that, just kept his eyes locked on mine. My stare won. He lost the battle of wills as I gave him the instructions. “I think you’ll have a pressing reason to leave this place before you’re due to come back tonight, won’t you? Who knows, maybe you’ll get an irresistible job offer from far away. A job overseas, perhaps? Something too opportunistic to ignore?”

Read it again. There was a section, the part about my contribution to the gala, that had a quote from Nate that I was fairly certain I would need to sit with for a long time before I understood fully what it did to something in my chest. But it was the final line of the statement that I kept coming back to. Not the legal precision of the anonymous source section. Not the charity numbers. One sentence in the middle of my section that wasn't a quote and wasn't a statistic, that was just, declarative. Plain. The way Julian said things that weren't up for discussion.

“And if Scott is the one who makes you laugh, the one who gets through to you? Then why fight it?” A slow, nervous smile kreeps onto my face. “You always know what to say.” “Of course I do. That is why you called me.” She says smugly. I laugh, shaking my head. “All right, I’ll… I’ll think about it.” I say. “Don’t think too hard about it. Sometimes the best decisions we make are the ones we don’t give ourselves time to overthink.” She says softly and I nod my head, even though I know she can't see me.

“That might be the most useful thing you’ve said all week.” “A high bar,” he muttered. Freeda’s gaze went back to the street. “I’m tired of him contaminating everything.” Scott’s voice was careful. “Then stop calling it everything.” She frowned. “What?” “He can ruin a room,” Scott said. “A post. A gift. A doorway. But if you call it everything, you hand him the whole map.” Freeda watched a traffic light change below. “And what if it already feels like everything?” Scott tilted his head, studying her fully. “Then I sit in the part he hasn’t taken.”

And I couldn’t control my laughter when I recalled how badly he sucked at the language. “You know, I once read a grand quote by someone. It said, ‘Before you die, experience the love of a writer, poet or painter.’” “If you’re lucky enough to be an artist’s muse, they will immortalise you.” I finish for him. It’s one of my favourite quotes of all times. He stares at me with a hint of warmth, his eyes telling me more about him than his words. We both avoid eye contact and glance at the table. I’ve no idea why I’m acting like a ten-year-old.

I stepped toward her and set my hand on her waist before murmuring, “We make ourselves rich by making our wants few.” Her lips parted as if that was the most profound thing she’d ever heard. And it might’ve been, since it had originally come from the lips of Henry David Thoreau. Which was why I couldn’t continue to take credit for it. I pointed past her toward the wall with my free hand. “At least that’s what Thoreau says.” She glanced back to find the quote printed and framed above the desk. “Oh.” Scowling, she whirled back to poke me in the gut. “You cheated. That’s a cheater’s answer.”

Just to say the things out loud. “James and I are not broken,” I say, almost to myself. “Just cracked a little.” “Cracks are how light gets in,” Marcy says, reaching for a dinner roll. I just love her attitude to life. Wes scoffs. “You two read too many P*******t quotes.” “They’re not wrong,” Dad murmurs. “But I still don’t like this. You being hurt. Him trying to figure it out too late.” “He’s not too late,” I say. “Not yet.”