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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.
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
Terror
Lips
Flower
Terrors
Arms
Ghosts
Face
Sunrise
Faces
Wet
Like
Ghost
Vain
More quotes by Edith Wharton
No insect hangs its nest on threads as frail as those which will sustain the weight of human vanity.
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Overhead hung a summer sky furrowed with the rush of rockets and from the east a late moon, pushing up beyond the lofty bend of the coast, sent across the bay a shaft of brightness which paled to ashes in the red glitter of the illuminated boats.
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Any rapidly enacted episode. . .should be seen through only one pair of eyes.
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People struggled on for years with 'troubles,' but they almost always succumbed to 'complications.
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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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Think what stupid things the people must have done with their money who say they're 'happier without'.
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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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Her failure was a useful preliminary to success.
Edith Wharton
She gave so many reasons that I've forgotten them all.
Edith Wharton
Society soon grows used to any state of things which is imposed upon it without explanation.
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Poetry and art are the breath of life to her.
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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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She had no tolerance for scenes which were not of her own making.
Edith Wharton
... how I understand that love of living, of being in this wonderful, astounding world even if one can look at it only through theprison bars of illness and suffering! Plus je vois, the more I am thrilled by the spectacle.
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In reality they all lived in a kind of hieroglyphic world, where the real thing was never said or done or even thought, but only represented by a set of arbitrary signs.
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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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In any really good subject, one has only to probe deep enough to come to tears.
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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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Life's just a perpetual piecing together of broken bits.
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It seems stupid to have discovered America only to make it into a copy of another country.
Edith Wharton