Quote

Damn words they're just the pots and pans of life, the pails and scrubbing-brushes. I wish I didn't have to think in words.

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
Words
Wish
Pails
Didn
Scrubbing
Think
Pans
Thinking
Pots
Life
Brushes
Pot
Damn

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Life has a way of overgrowing its achievements as well as its ruins.
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There are lots of ways of being miserable, but there's only one way of being comfortable, and that is to stop running round after happiness. If you make up your mind not to be happy there's no reason why you shouldn't have a fairly good time.
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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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Each time you happen to me all over again.
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... naturalness is not always consonant with taste.
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In reality they all lived in a kind of hieroglyphic world, where the real thing was never said or done or even thought, but only represented by a set of arbitrary signs.
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In the summer New York was the only place in which one could escape from New Yorkers.
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I've always shrunk from usurping the functions of Providence, and when I have to exercise them I decidedly prefer that it shouldn't be on an errand of destruction.
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I have never known a novel that was good enough to be good in spite of its being adapted to the author's political views.
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Life is always either a tight -rope or a feather-bed . — Give me the tightrope.
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Set wide the window. Let me drink the day.
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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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The value of books is proportionate to what may be called their plasticity -- their quality of being all things to all men, of being diversely moulded by the impact of fresh forms of thought.
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The true felicity of a lover of books is the luxurious turning of page by page, the surrender, not meanly abject, but deliberate and cautious, with your wits about you, as you deliver yourself into the keeping of the book. This I call reading.
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True originality consists not in a new manner but in a new vision. That new, that personal, vision is attained only by looking long enough at the object represented to make it the writer's own and the mind which would bring this secret gem to fruition must be able to nourish it with an accumulated wealth of knowledge and experience.
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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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The only thing to do is to hug one's friends tight and do one's job.
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[B]ut he had lived in a world in which, as he said, no one who loved ideas need hunger mentally.
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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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