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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.

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
Civilization
Bracelet
Like
Evidently
Mirth
Links
Produced
Victim
Seemed
Fate
Manacles

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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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Damn words they're just the pots and pans of life, the pails and scrubbing-brushes. I wish I didn't have to think in words.
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I swear I only want to hear about you, to know what you've been doing. It's a hundred years since we've met-it may be another hundred before we meet again.
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He had married (as most young men did) because he had met a perfectly charming girl at the moment when a series of rather aimless sentimental adventures were ending in premature disgust and she had represented peace, stability, comradeship, and the steadying sense of an unescapable duty.
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In any really good subject, one has only to probe deep enough to come to tears.
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Their long years together had shown him that it did not so much matter if marriage was a dull duty, as long as it kept the dignity of duty: lapsing from that, it became a mere battle of ugly appetites.
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The visible world is a daily miracle, for those who have eyes and ears.
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She gave so many reasons that I've forgotten them all.
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Everything may be labelled- but everybody is not.
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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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The air of ideas is the only air worth breathing.
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She wondered if, when human souls try to get too near each other, they do not inevitably become mere blurs to each other's vision.
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The effect produced by a short story depends almost entirely on its form.
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The difference is that these young people take it for granted that they're going to get whatever they want, and that we almost always took it for granted that we shouldn't. Only, I wonder—the thing one's so certain of in advance: can it ever make one's heart beat as wildly?
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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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traditions that have lost their meaning are the hardest of all to destroy.
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