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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.

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
Alive
Future
Cinders
Felt
Usual
Moments
Buried
Like
Mouth
Mouths
Taste

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People struggled on for years with 'troubles,' but they almost always succumbed to 'complications.
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The visible world is a daily miracle, for those who have eyes and ears.
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After all, one knows one's weak points so well, that it's rather bewildering to have the critics overlook them and invent others.
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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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In the summer New York was the only place in which one could escape from New Yorkers.
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One of the first obligations of art is to make all useful things beautiful.
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Inkstands and tea-cups are never as full as when one upsets them.
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Her vivid smile was like a light held up to dazzle me.
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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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Mothers and daughters are part of each other's consciousness, in different degrees and in a different way, but still with the mutual sense of something which has always been there. A real mother is just a habit of thought to her children.
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Set wide the window. Let me drink the day.
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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 worst of doing one's duty was that it apparently unfitted one for doing anything else.
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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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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.
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She gave so many reasons that I've forgotten them all.
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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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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 mind was an hotel where facts came and went like transient lodgers, without leaving their address behind, and frequently without paying for their board.
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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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