When I saw the sadness of your face in that passport picture I felt as you can imagine. But after going through what you can imagine I did then and looking and it and looking at it, I saw that it was the face I knew and loved and not that mettalic superimposition of our last two years in France….The photograph is all I have; it is with me from the morning when I wake up with a frantic half dream about you to the last moment when I think of you and of death at night. The rotten letters you write me I simply put away under L in my file….If you choose to keep your wrestling match with a pillar of air I would prefer to be not even in the audience.
I am hardened to write you so brutally by thinking of the ceaseless wave of love that surrounds you and envelopes you always, that you have the power to evoke at whim—when I know that for the mere counterfeit of it I would perjure the best of my heart and mind. Do you think the solitude in which I live has more amusing decor than any other solitude? Do you think it is any nicer for remembering that there were times very late at night when you and I shared our aloneness? I will take my full share of responsibility for all this tragedy but I cannot spread beyond the limits of my reach and grasp, I can only bring you the little bit of hope I have and I don’t know any other hope except my own. I have the terrible misfortune to be a gentleman in the sort of struggle with incalculable elements to which people should bring centuries of inexperience; if I have failed you it is just barely possible that you have failed me….I love you with all my heart because you are my own girl and that is all I know.
— A letter Scott wrote to Zelda while he was looking at a photo of her, undated. (via fitzgeraldist)