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There are two ways of spreading light: to be the candle or the mirror that reflects it.

Edith Wharton

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Edith Wharton
Age: 75 †
Born: 1862
Born: January 24
Died: 1937
Died: August 11
Novelist
Poet
Prosaist
Translator
Writer
New York City
New York
Edith Newbold Jones
Edith Newbold Jones Wharton
Women
Ways
Mirrors
Positivity
Resilient
Way
Wisdom
Spirituality
Candle
Resilience
Thinking
Knowledge
Reflection
Empowering
Lamps
Resiliency
Life
Peace
Spread
Novelists
Reflects
Mirroring
Spiritual
Kindness
Birthday
Graduation
Candlelight
Inspirational
Positive
Caring
Reflecting
Outreach
Two
Attitude
Appreciation
Volunteer
Torches
Light
Leader
Mirror
Uplifting
Spreading

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She gave so many reasons that I've forgotten them all.
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The visible world is a daily miracle, for those who have eyes and ears.
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Since the Americans have ceased to have dyspepsia, they have lost the only thing that gave them any expression.
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In the summer New York was the only place in which one could escape from New Yorkers.
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Habit is necessary. It is the habit of having habits, of turning a trail into a rut, that must be incessantly fought against if one is to remain alive ... one can remain alive long past the usual date of disintegration if one is unafraid of change, insatiable in intellectual curiosity, interested in the big things, and happy in small ways.
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There was no use in trying to emancipate a wife who had not the dimmest notion that she was not free.
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Do you know-I hardly remembered you? Hardly remembered me? I mean: how shall I explain? I-it's always so. Each time you happen to me all over again.
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Yes, you have been away a very long time.' 'Oh, centuries and centuries so long,' she said, 'that I'm sure I'm dead and buried and this dear old place is heaven.
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It is almost as stupid to let your clothes betray that you know you are ugly as to have them proclaim that you think you are beautiful.
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there are lots of ways of answering a letter - and writing doesn't happen to be mine.
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She threw back her head with a laugh that made her chins ripple like little waves.
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He had to deal all at once with the packed regrets and stifled memories of an inarticulate lifetime.
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Almost everybody in the neighborhood had troubles, frankly localized and specified but only the chosen had complications. To have them was in itself a distinction, though it was also, in most cases, a death warrant. People struggled on for years wit
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To visit Morocco is still like turning the pages of some illuminated Persian manuscript all embroidered with bright shapes and subtle lines.
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The real loneliness is living among all these kind people who only ask one to pretend!
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And he felt himself oppressed by this creation of factitious purity, so cunningly manufactured by a conspiracy of mothers and aunts and grandmothers and long-dead ancestresses, because it was supposed to be what he wanted, what he had a right to, in order that he might exercise his lordly pleasure in smashing it like an image made of snow.
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Poetry and art are the breath of life to her.
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There are lots of ways of being miserable, but there's only one way of being comfortable, and that is to stop running round after happiness. If you make up your mind not to be happy there's no reason why you shouldn't have a fairly good time.
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The true felicity of a lover of books is the luxurious turning of page by page, the surrender, not meanly abject, but deliberate and cautious, with your wits about you, as you deliver yourself into the keeping of the book. This I call reading.
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