The Great Gatsby / F. Scott Fitzgerald

Title: The Great Gatsby 

Author: F. Scott Fitzgerald

Subjects: Classic; Fiction

The Great Gatsby explores themes of decadence, idealism, resistance to change, social upheaval, and excess, creating a portrait of the Roaring Twenties. The story is of the fabulously wealthy Jay Gatsby and his new love for the beautiful Daisy Buchanan, of lavish parties on Long Island at a time when The New York Times noted "gin was the national drink and sex the national obsession," it is an exquisitely crafted tale of America in the 1920s. One of the greatest classic of American literature.

The Ice Palace / F. Scott Fitzgerald

The sunlight dripped over the house like golden paint over an art

jar, and the freckling shadows here and there only intensified

the rigor of the bath of light. The Butterworth and Larkin houses

flanking were entrenched behind great stodgy trees; only the

Happer house took the full sun, and all day long faced the dusty

road-street with a tolerant kindly patience. This was the city of

Tarleton in southernmost Georgia, September afternoon.

Head and Shoulders / F. Scott Fitzgerald

In 1915 Horace Tarbox was thirteen years old. In that year he took the examinations for entrance to Princeton 
University and received the Grade A--excellent--in Caesar, Cicero, Vergil, Xenophon,
 Homer, Algebra, Plane Geometry, Solid Geometry, and Chemistry.

The Cut-Glass Bowl / F. Scott Fitzgerald

There was a rough stone age and a smooth stone age and a bronze

age, and many years afterward a cut-glass age. In the cut-glass

age, when young ladies had persuaded young men with long, curly

mustaches to marry them, they sat down several months afterward

and wrote thank-you notes for all sorts of cut-glass

presents--punch-bowls, finger-bowls, dinner-glasses,

wine-glasses, ice-cream dishes, bonbon dishes, decanters, and

vases--for, though cut glass was nothing new in the nineties, it

was then especially busy reflecting the dazzling light of fashion

from the Back Bay to the fastnesses of the Middle West.

Bernice Bobs Her Hair / F. Scott Fitzgerald

After dark on Saturday night one could stand on the first tee of

the golf-course and see the country-club windows as a yellow

expanse over a very black and wavy ocean. The waves of this

ocean, so to speak, were the heads of many curious caddies, a few

of the more ingenious chauffeurs, the golf professional's deaf

sister--and there were usually several stray, diffident waves who

might have rolled inside had they so desired. This was the

gallery.

Benediction / F. Scott Fitzgerald

The Baltimore Station was hot and crowded, so Lois was forced to

stand by the telegraph desk for interminable, sticky seconds

while a clerk with big front teeth counted and recounted a large

lady's day message, to determine whether it contained the

innocuous forty-nine words or the fatal fifty-one.

Dalyrimple Goes Wrong / F. Scott Fitzgerald

In the millennium an educational genius will write a book to be

given to every young man on the date of his disillusion. This

work will have the flavor of Montaigne's essays and Samuel

Butler's note-books--and a little of Tolstoi and Marcus

Aurelius. It will be neither cheerful nor pleasant but will

contain numerous passages of striking humor. Since first-class

minds never believe anything very strongly until they've

experienced it, its value will be purely relative . . . all

people over thirty will refer to it as "depressing."

The Four Fists / F. Scott Fitzgerald

At the present time no one I know has the slightest desire to

hit Samuel Meredith; possibly this is because a man over fifty

is liable to be rather severely cracked at the impact of a

hostile fist, but, for my part, I am inclined to think that all

his hitable qualities have quite vanished. But it is certain

that at various times in his life hitable qualities were in his

face, as surely as kissable qualities have ever lurked in a

girl's lips.

The Offshore Pirate / F. Scott Fitzgerald

This unlikely story begins on a sea that was a blue dream, as colorful as blue-silk stockings, and beneath a sky as blue as the irises of children's eyes. From the western half of the sky the sun was shying little golden disks at the sea—if you gazed intently enough you could see them skip from wave tip to wave tip until they joined a broad collar of golden coin that was collecting half a mile out and would eventually be a dazzling sunset. About half-way between the Florida shore and the golden collar a white steam-yacht, very young and graceful, was riding at anchor and under a blue-and-white awning aft a yellow-haired girl reclined in a wicker settee reading The Revolt of the Angels, by Anatole France.