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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
Age
Thing
Aging
Sorrow

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Life has a way of overgrowing its achievements as well as its ruins.
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I swear I only want to hear about you, to know what you've been doing. It's a hundred years since we've met-it may be another hundred before we meet again.
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Most timidities have such secret compensations and Miss Bart was discerning enough to know that the inner vanity is generally in proportion to the outer self depreciation.
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In all the arts abundance seems to be one of the surest signs of vocation.
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They seemed to come suddenly upon happiness as if they had surprised a butterfly in the winter woods
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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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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 effect produced by a short story depends almost entirely on its form.
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But marriage is one long sacrifice.... Chapter 21, Medora Manson speaking to Newland Archer
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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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If proportion is the good breeding of architecture, symmetry, or the answering of one part to another, may be defined as the sanity of decoration.
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Everything may be labelled- but everybody is not.
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Old age, calm, expanded, broad with the haughty breadth of the universe, old age flowing free with the delicious near-by freedom of death.
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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.
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Ah, the poverty, the miserable poverty, of any love that lies outside of marriage, of any love that is not a living together, a sharing of all!
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He simply felt that if he could carry away the vision of the spot of earth she walked on, and the way the sky and sea enclosed it, the rest of the world might seem less empty.
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Since the Americans have ceased to have dyspepsia, they have lost the only thing that gave them any expression.
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The desire for symmetry, for balance, for rhythm in form as well as in sound, is one of the most inveterate of human instincts.
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Inkstands and tea-cups are never as full as when one upsets them.
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And all the while, I suppose, he thought, real people were living somewhere, and real things happening to them.
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