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Misfortune had made Lily supple instead of hardening her, and a pliable substance is less easy to break than a stiff one.
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
Literature
Lily
Less
Stiff
Easy
Lilies
Made
Misfortune
Misfortunes
Pliable
Substance
Stiffness
Instead
Hardening
Break
Supple
More quotes by Edith Wharton
He had her in his arms, her face like a wet flower at his lips, and all their vain terrors shriveling up like ghosts at sunrise.
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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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If proportion is the good breeding of architecture, symmetry, or the answering of one part to another, may be defined as the sanity of decoration.
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One can remain alive ... if one is unafraid of change, insatiable in intellectual curiosity interested in big things and happy in small ways.
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It was too late for happiness - but not too late to be helped by the thought of what I had missed. That is all I haved lived on - don't take it from me now
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Life's just a perpetual piecing together of broken bits.
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She was so evidently the victim of the civilization which had produced her, that the links of her bracelet seemed like manacles chaining her to her fate.
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Inkstands and tea-cups are never as full as when one upsets them.
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It must be less wicked to love the wrong person than not to love anybody at all.
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traditions that have lost their meaning are the hardest of all to destroy.
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In any really good subject, one has only to probe deep enough to come to tears.
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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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Everybody who does anything at all does too much.
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Set wide the window. Let me drink the day.
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It frightened him to think what must have gone to the making of her eyes.
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I can't love you unless I give you up.
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In reality they all lived in a kind of hieroglyphic world, where the real thing was never said or done or even thought, but only represented by a set of arbitrary signs.
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The taste of the usual was like cinders in his mouth, and there were moments when he felt as if he were being buried alive under his future.
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In every heart there should be one grief that is like a well in the desert.
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Another unsettling element in modern art is that common symptom of immaturity, the dread of doing what has been done before.
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