‘[…] It’s like begging for mercy of a storm or killing Beauty or growing old, without you. Nobody’s got any right to live but us – and they’re dirtying up our world and I can’t hate them because I want you so.’
Archive for the To Scott, To Zelda – Letters from the Jazz Age Category
‘Both of us are very splashy vivid pictures, those kind with the details left out, but I know our colours will blend, and I think we’ll look very well hanging beside each other in the gallery of life […].
[…] All authors who want to make things true to life make them smell bad […]. I do hope you’ll never be a realist – one of those kind who thinks being ugly is being forceful.’
‘Darling Heart, our fairy tale is almost ended, and we’re going to marry and live happily ever afterward just like the princess in her 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 minutes I’ve caused you when we could have been so happy. You deserve so much – so very much – I think our life together will be like these last four days – and I do want to marry you – even if you do think I dread it – I wish you hadn’t said that – I’m not afraid of anything. To be afraid a person has either to be a coward or very great and big. I am neither. Besides, I know you can take much better care of me than I can, and I’ll always be very, very happy with you – except sometimes when we engage in our weekly debates – and even then I rather enjoy myself. I like being very calm and masterful, while you become emotional and sulky. I don’t care whether you think so or not – I do. […] Sweetheart – I miss you so. I love you so – and next time I’m going back with you – I’m absolutely nothing without you – just the doll that I should have been born. You’re a necessity and a luxury and a darling precious lover – and you’re going to be a husband to your wife […].’
‘[…] All I want is to be 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 […]. And Scott, Darlin’, don’t try so hard to convince yourself that we’re very old people who’ve lost their most precious possession. We really haven’t found it yet – and only weaklings like the St. Paul girl you told me about who lack courage and the power to feel they’re right when the whole world says they’re wrong, ever lose – All the fire and sweetness – the emotional strength that we’re capable of is growing – growing and just because sanity and wisdom are growing too and we’re building our love castle on a firm foundation, nothing is lost – that first abandon couldn’t last, but the things that went to make it are tremendously alive – just like blowing bubbles – they burst, but more bubbles just as beautiful can be blown – and burst – till the soap and water is gone – and that’s the way we’ll be, I guess – so don’t mourn for a poor little forlorn, wonderful memory when we’ve got each other – because I know I love you – and you’ll come in January to tell me that you do – and we won’t worry anymore about anything […].’
‘[…] 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 me ’cause I’m clever, and they’re always afraid of my prettiness – One or two have even loved me ’cause I’m lovable, and then of course I was acting – But you just do, darling – and I do – very very very much […].
[…] Maybe I’m getting tired – I can’t think of anything but nights with you. I want them warm and silvery – when we can be together all our lives – which will probably be long, as I’ve recovered from the cough, much to my disgust. I don’t want you to see me growing old and ugly – I know you’ll be a beautiful old man – romantic and dreamy – and I’ll probably be most prosaic and wrinkled – we will just have to die when we’re 30 […].’
‘[…] Why should graves make people feel in vain? I’ve heard that so much, and Grey is so convincing, but somehow I can’t find anything hopeless in having lived – All the broken columns and clasped hands and doves and angels mean romances – and in a hundred years I think I shall like having young people speculate on whther my eyes were brown or blue – of course they are neither – Isn’t it funny how, out of a row of soldiers, two or three will make you think of dead lovers and dead loves – when they’re exactly like the others, even to the yellowish moss? Old death is beautiful – so very beautiful – we will die together – I know. […] Everytime I look nice – or do anything I mentally applaud, I always wish for you – just to hear you say you like it […].
[…] “Marcus Aurelius” is my literature in the absence of your letters – Tootsie thinks he’s most remarkable. I guess he was, for his day, but now it’s all just platitudes. All philosophy is, more or less – It seems as if there’s no new wisdom – and surely people haven’t stopped thinking. I guess morality has relinquished its claim on the intellect – and the thinkers think dollars and wars and politics – I don’t know whether it’s evolution or degeneration […].