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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
Face
Sunrise
Faces
Wet
Like
Ghost
Vain
Terror
Lips
Flower
Terrors
Arms
Ghosts

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In any really good subject, one has only to probe deep enough to come to tears.
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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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Another unsettling element in modern art is that common symptom of immaturity, the dread of doing what has been done before.
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But after a moment a sense of waste and ruin overcame him. There they were, close together and safe and shut in yet so chained to their separate destinies that they might as well been half the world apart.
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It was easy enough to despise the world, but decidedly difficult to find any other habitable region.
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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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In the rotation of crops there was a recognized season for wild oats but they were not sown more than once.
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She was so evidently the victim of the civilization which had produced her, that the links of her bracelet seemed like manacles chaining her to her fate.
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There was no use in trying to emancipate a wife who had not the dimmest notion that she was not free.
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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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She was not accustomed to taste the joys of solitude except in company.
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She had been bored all afternoon by Percy Gryce... but she could not ignore him on the morrow, she must follow up her success, must submit to more boredom, must be ready with fresh compliances and adaptibilities, and all on the bare chance that he might ultimately decide to do her the honour of boring her for life.
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The only way not to think about money is to have a great deal of it.
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If only we'd stop trying to be happy, we could have a pretty good time.
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I can't love you unless I give you up.
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There are two ways of spreading light: to be the candle or the mirror that reflects it.
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Everybody who does anything at all does too much.
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The difference is that these young people take it for granted that they're going to get whatever they want, and that we almost always took it for granted that we shouldn't. Only, I wonder—the thing one's so certain of in advance: can it ever make one's heart beat as wildly?
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It must be less wicked to love the wrong person than not to love anybody at all.
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