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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.
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
Empty
Moments
Noises
Littles
Addicted
Little
Escape
Come
Noise
Life
Welcome
Solitude
Seemed
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True originality consists not in a new manner but in a new vision.
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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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The air of ideas is the only air worth breathing.
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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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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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Life is always either a tight -rope or a feather-bed . — Give me the tightrope.
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One of the great things about travel is you find out how many good, kind people there are.
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I have drunk of the wine of life at last, I have known the thing best worth knowing, I have been warmed through and through, never to grow quite cold again till the end.
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She was not accustomed to taste the joys of solitude except in company.
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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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I despair of the Republic! Such dreariness, such whining sallow women, such utter absence of the amenities, such crass food, crass manners, crass landscape!! What a horror it is for a whole nation to be developing without the sense of beauty, and eating bananas for breakfast.
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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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Life's just a perpetual piecing together of broken bits.
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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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The value of books is proportionate to what may be called their plasticity -- their quality of being all things to all men, of being diversely moulded by the impact of fresh forms of thought.
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We ought to be opening a bottle of wine!
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...and wondering where he had read that clever liars give details, but that the cleverest do not.
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