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I don't believe in God, but I do believe in His saints.

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
Saints
Saint
Believe

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Life has a way of overgrowing its achievements as well as its ruins.
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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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Don't you ever mind, she asked suddenly, not being rich enough to buy all the books you want?
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One of the great things about travel is you find out how many good, kind people there are.
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Women ought to be free - as free as we are,' he declared, making a discovery of which he was too irritated to measure the terrific consequences.
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One of the first obligations of art is to make all useful things beautiful.
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They are all alike you know. They hold their tongues for years and you think you're safe, but when the opportunity comes they remember everything.
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She was not accustomed to taste the joys of solitude except in company.
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Until the raw ingredients of a pudding make a pudding, I shall never believe that the raw material of sensation and thought can make a work of art without the cook's intervening.
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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.
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Life's just a perpetual piecing together of broken bits.
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...and wondering where he had read that clever liars give details, but that the cleverest do not.
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The taste of the usual was like cinders in his mouth, and there were moments when he felt as if he were being buried alive under his future.
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Any rapidly enacted episode. . .should be seen through only one pair of eyes.
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It frightened him to think what must have gone to the making of her eyes.
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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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[I]t's safer to be fond of dangerous people.
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A New York divorce is in itself a diploma of virtue.
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It was harder to drown at sunrise than in darkness.
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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.
Edith Wharton