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The visible world is a daily miracle for those who have eyes and ears and I still warm hands thankfully at the old fire, though every year it is fed with the dry wood of more old memories.

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
Stills
Ears
Feds
Still
Memories
Wood
Every
Fire
Dry
Years
Eyes
Visible
World
Year
Woods
Though
Daily
Eye
Warm
Hands
Miracle
Thankfully

More quotes by Edith Wharton

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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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In the summer New York was the only place in which one could escape from New Yorkers.
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We live in our own souls as in an unmapped region, a few acres of which we have cleared for our habitation while of the nature of those nearest us we know but the boundaries that march with ours.
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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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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 don't believe in God, but I do believe in His saints.
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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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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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I discovered early that crying makes my nose red, and the knowledge has helped me through several painful episodes.
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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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It was the old New York way...the way people who dreaded scandal more than disease, who placed decency above courage, and who considered that nothing was more ill-bred than scenes, except those who gave rise to them.
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[B]ut he had lived in a world in which, as he said, no one who loved ideas need hunger mentally.
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Her failure was a useful preliminary to success.
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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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The early mist had vanished and the fields lay like a silver shield under the sun. It was one of the days when the glitter of winter shines through a pale haze of spring.
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I have never known a novel that was good enough to be good in spite of its being adapted to the author's political views.
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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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In a sky of iron the points of the Dipper hung like icicles and Orion flashed his cold fires.
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... naturalness is not always consonant with taste.
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