That familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.
Interpretation
The quote expresses the feeling of renewal and new beginnings that often accompany the summer season.
F. Scott Fitzgerald captures the essence of summer as a time of rejuvenation and the possibility of starting fresh. The quote reflects the deep emotional connection many people have with the changing seasons, suggesting that life can offer new opportunities and experiences, similar to how each summer brings warmth, growth, and a sense of optimism.
In practice
In a motivational speech about embracing change and new opportunities.
Don't be so anxious about it,' she laughed. 'I'm not used to being loved. I wouldn't know what to do; I never got the trick of it.' She looked down at him, shy and fatigued. 'So here we are. I told you years ago that I had the makings of Cinderella.' He took her hand; she drew it back instinctively and then replaced it in his. 'Beg your pardon. Not even used to being touched. But I'm not afraid of you, if you stay quiet and don't move suddenly.
The test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposed ideas in mind at the same time and still retain the ability to function.
It was about then [1920] that I wrote a line which certain people will not let me forget: "She was a faded but still lovely woman of twenty-seven."
The words seemed to bite physically into Gatsby.
But you can love more than just one person, can't you?
A sudden gust of rain blew over them and then another - as if small liquid clouds were bouncing along the land. Lightning entered the sea far off and the air blew full of crackling thunder. The table cloths blew around the pillars. They blew and blew and blew. The flags twisted around the red chairs like live things, the banners were ragged, the corners of the table tore off through the burbling billowing ends of the cloths.
Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of our lives.
You must save what you can of your life; you musn't lose it all simply because you've lost a part.
The birds sang, the proles sang. the Party did not sing. All round the world, in London and New York, in Africa and Brazil, and in the mysterious, forbidden lands beyond the frontiers, in the streets of Paris and Berlin, in the villages of the endless Russian plain, in the bazaars of China and Japan β everywhere stood the same solid unconquerable figure, made monstrous by work and childbearing, toiling from birth to death and still singing.
The highest tribute to the dead is not grief but gratitude.
There are mountainous, arduous days, up which one takes an infinite time to climb, and downward-sloping days which one can descend at full tilt, singing as one goes.
Life is a garden. It is an opportunity. You can grow weeds, you can grow roses; it all depends on you.
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