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Since the Americans have ceased to have dyspepsia, they have lost the only thing that gave them any expression.
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
Ceased
Gave
Americans
Expression
Since
Lost
Thing
Dyspepsia
More quotes by Edith Wharton
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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There's no such thing as old age, there is only sorrow.
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Society soon grows used to any state of things which is imposed upon it without explanation.
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Any rapidly enacted episode. . .should be seen through only one pair of eyes.
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The effect produced by a short story depends almost entirely on its form.
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[I]t's safer to be fond of dangerous people.
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One can remain alive ... if one is unafraid of change, insatiable in intellectual curiosity interested in big things and happy in small ways.
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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.
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Half the trouble in life is caused by pretending there isn't any.
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It seems stupid to have discovered America only to make it into a copy of another country.
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The visible world is a daily miracle, for those who have eyes and ears.
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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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The real loneliness is living among all these kind people who only ask one to pretend!
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Life has a way of overgrowing its achievements as well as its ruins.
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Everything may be labelled- but everybody is not.
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He had to deal all at once with the packed regrets and stifled memories of an inarticulate lifetime.
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traditions that have lost their meaning are the hardest of all to destroy.
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Life is always either a tight -rope or a feather-bed . — Give me the tightrope.
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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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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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