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Once more it was borne in on him that marriage was not the safe anchorage he had been taught to think, but a voyage on uncharted seas.

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
Innocence
Sea
Safe
Anchorage
Marriage
Uncharted
Taught
Voyage
Literature
Borne
Think
Voyages
Thinking
Seas

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There's no such thing as old age, there is only sorrow.
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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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When people ask for time, it's always for time to say no. Yes has one more letter in it, but it doesn't take half as long to say.
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Archer had always been inclined to think that chance and circumstance played a small part in shaping people's lots compared with their innate tendency to have things happen to them.
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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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Life's just a perpetual piecing together of broken bits.
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She was not accustomed to taste the joys of solitude except in company.
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It is almost as stupid to let your clothes betray that you know you are ugly as to have them proclaim that you think you are beautiful.
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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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One of the first obligations of art is to make all useful things beautiful.
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Life is the only real counselor wisdom unfiltered through personal experience does not become a part of the moral tissue.
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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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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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To visit Morocco is still like turning the pages of some illuminated Persian manuscript all embroidered with bright shapes and subtle lines.
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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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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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... naturalness is not always consonant with taste.
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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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She had no tolerance for scenes which were not of her own making.
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It frightened him to think what must have gone to the making of her eyes.
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