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Archer reddened to the temples but dared not move or speak: it was as if her words had been some rare butterfly that the least motion might drive off on startled wings, but that might gather a flock if it were left undisturbed.
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
Moving
Temples
Undisturbed
Speak
Motion
Startled
Left
Rare
Archer
Might
Drive
Flock
Wings
Dared
Move
Flocks
Least
Gather
Words
Butterfly
Reddened
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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.
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I was never allowed to read the popular American children's books of my day because, as my mother said, the children spoke bad English without the author's knowing it.
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They belonged to that vast group of human automata who go through life without neglecting to perform a single one of the gestures executed by the surrounding puppets.
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Set wide the window. Let me drink the day.
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One of the first obligations of art is to make all useful things beautiful.
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In all the arts abundance seems to be one of the surest signs of vocation.
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Life is made up of compromises.
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In any really good subject, one has only to probe deep enough to come to tears.
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Life is always either a tight -rope or a feather-bed . — Give me the tightrope.
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For what endless years this life will have to go on! He felt, with a kind of horror, his own strong youth and the bounding blood in his veins.
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The worst of doing one's duty was that it apparently unfitted one for doing anything else.
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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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They seemed to come suddenly upon happiness as if they had surprised a butterfly in the winter woods
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Yes, one gets over things. But there are certain memories one can't bit on.
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... naturalness is not always consonant with taste.
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I don't know that I should care for a man who made life easy I should want some one who made it interesting.
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traditions that have lost their meaning are the hardest of all to destroy.
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For hours she had lain in a kind of gentle torpor, not unlike that sweet lassitude which masters one in the hush of a midsummer noon, when the heat seems to have silenced the very birds and insects, and, lying sunk in the tasselled meadow grasses, one looks up through a level roofing of maple-leaves at the vast, shadowless, and unsuggestive blue.
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And all the while, I suppose, he thought, real people were living somewhere, and real things happening to them.
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If only we'd stop trying to be happy, we could have a pretty good time.
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