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In every heart there should be one grief that is like a well in the desert.

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
Wells
Well
Heart
Every
Like
Desert
Grief

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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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What a shame it is for a nation to be developing without a sense of beauty, and eating bananas for breakfast.
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Her vivid smile was like a light held up to dazzle me.
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... caprice is as ruinous as routine.
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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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It was harder to drown at sunrise than in darkness.
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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 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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Everybody who does anything at all does too much.
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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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Little as she was addicted to solitude, there had come to be moments when it seemed a welcome escape from the empty noises of her life.
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Think what stupid things the people must have done with their money who say they're 'happier without'.
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She seemed to melt against him in her terror, and he caught her in his arms, held her fast there, felt her lashes beat his cheek like netted butterflies.
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... there are spines to which the immobility of worship is not a strain.
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Most timidities have such secret compensations and Miss Bart was discerning enough to know that the inner vanity is generally in proportion to the outer self depreciation.
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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 had no tolerance for scenes which were not of her own making.
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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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And all the while, I suppose, he thought, real people were living somewhere, and real things happening to them.
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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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