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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.
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
Shall
Pudding
Art
Sensation
Thought
Ingredients
Without
Sensations
Work
Cook
Believe
Cooks
Make
Material
Never
Materials
Intervening
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We ought to be opening a bottle of wine!
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The real loneliness is living among all these kind people who only ask one to pretend!
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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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...and wondering where he had read that clever liars give details, but that the cleverest do not.
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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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Misfortune had made Lily supple instead of hardening her, and a pliable substance is less easy to break than a stiff one.
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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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Habit is necessary. It is the habit of having habits, of turning a trail into a rut, that must be incessantly fought against if one is to remain alive ... one can remain alive long past the usual date of disintegration if one is unafraid of change, insatiable in intellectual curiosity, interested in the big things, and happy in small ways.
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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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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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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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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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The air of ideas is the only air worth breathing.
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[I]t's safer to be fond of dangerous people.
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For hours she had lain in a kind of gentle torpor, not unlike that sweet lassitude which masters one in the hush of a midsummer noon, when the heat seems to have silenced the very birds and insects, and, lying sunk in the tasselled meadow grasses, one looks up through a level roofing of maple-leaves at the vast, shadowless, and unsuggestive blue.
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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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