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Do you know-I hardly remembered you? Hardly remembered me? I mean: how shall I explain? I-it's always so. Each time you happen to me all over again.

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
Literature
Happens
Mean
Always
Hardly
Time
Remembered
Explain
Shall
Happen

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Yes, one gets over things. But there are certain memories one can't bit on.
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She gave so many reasons that I've forgotten them all.
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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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The visible world is a daily miracle, for those who have eyes and ears.
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It frightened him to think what must have gone to the making of her eyes.
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I wonder why rich people always grow fat I suppose it's because there's nothing to worry them.
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I don't know that I should care for a man who made life easy I should want some one who made it interesting.
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[I]t's safer to be fond of dangerous people.
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No insect hangs its nest on threads as frail as those which will sustain the weight of human vanity.
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Everybody who does anything at all does too much.
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I don't believe in God, but I do believe in His saints.
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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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The early mist had vanished and the fields lay like a silver shield under the sun. It was one of the days when the glitter of winter shines through a pale haze of spring.
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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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The air of ideas is the only air worth breathing.
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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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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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... naturalness is not always consonant with taste.
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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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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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