« | Main | »
Wednesday
Apr242013

Zelda Fitzgerald

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

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.

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

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.


Reader Comments

There are no comments for this journal entry. To create a new comment, use the form below.

PostPost a New Comment

Enter your information below to add a new comment.

My response is on my own website »
Author Email (optional):
Author URL (optional):
Post:
 
Some HTML allowed: <a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <code> <em> <i> <strike> <strong>