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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.
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
Necessary
Incessantly
Habit
Insatiable
Walking
Trail
Alive
Trails
Literature
Fought
Happiness
Habits
Must
Turning
Ruts
Remain
Unafraid
More quotes by Edith Wharton
She had no tolerance for scenes which were not of her own making.
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Don't you ever mind, she asked suddenly, not being rich enough to buy all the books you want?
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Until the raw ingredients of a pudding make a pudding, I shall never believe that the raw material of sensation and thought can make a work of art without the cook's intervening.
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Her failure was a useful preliminary to success.
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Life is made up of compromises.
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I don't believe in God, but I do believe in His saints.
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Set wide the window. Let me drink the day.
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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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It frightened him to think what must have gone to the making of her eyes.
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It seems stupid to have discovered America only to make it into a copy of another country.
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Her vivid smile was like a light held up to dazzle me.
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The real loneliness is living among all these kind people who only ask one to pretend!
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She gave so many reasons that I've forgotten them all.
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They seemed to come suddenly upon happiness as if they had surprised a butterfly in the winter woods
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I've always shrunk from usurping the functions of Providence, and when I have to exercise them I decidedly prefer that it shouldn't be on an errand of destruction.
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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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It must be less wicked to love the wrong person than not to love anybody at all.
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Then stay with me a little longer,' Madame Olenska said in a low tone, just touching his knee with her plumed fan. It was the lightest touch, but it thrilled him like a caress.
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He bent and laid his lips on her hands, which were cold and lifeless. She drew them away, and he turned to the door, found his coat and hat under the faint gas-light of the hall, and plunged out into the winter night bursting with the belated eloquence of the inarticulate.
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The air of ideas is the only air worth breathing.
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