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There's no such thing as old age, there is only sorrow.

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
Aging
Sorrow
Age
Thing

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The air of ideas is the only air worth breathing.
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... there are spines to which the immobility of worship is not a strain.
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She threw back her head with a laugh that made her chins ripple like little waves.
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Life's just a perpetual piecing together of broken bits.
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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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If only we'd stop trying to be happy, we could have a pretty good time.
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One of the first obligations of art is to make all useful things beautiful.
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She gave so many reasons that I've forgotten them all.
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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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Yes, you have been away a very long time.' 'Oh, centuries and centuries so long,' she said, 'that I'm sure I'm dead and buried and this dear old place is heaven.
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In every heart there should be one grief that is like a well in the desert.
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I can't love you unless I give you up.
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She was very near hating him now yet the sound of his voice, the way the light fell on his thin, dark hair, the way he sat and moved and wore his clothes—she was conscious that even these trivial things were inwoven with her deepest life.
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People struggled on for years with 'troubles,' but they almost always succumbed to 'complications.
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The real loneliness is living among all these kind people who only ask one to pretend!
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Her failure was a useful preliminary to success.
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I was never allowed to read the popular American children's books of my day because, as my mother said, the children spoke bad English without the author's knowing it.
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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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Inkstands and tea-cups are never as full as when one upsets them.
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