50 ordspråk av Edith Wharton

Edith Wharton

Edith Wharton

Edith Wharton föddes den 24 januar 1862 och dog den 11 august 1937 - and short-story writer.
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To be able to look life in the face: that's worth living in a garret for, isn't it?

But marriage is a one long sacrifice.

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.

How much longer are we going to think it necessary to be ''American'' before (or in contradistinction to) being cultivated, being enlightened, being humane, and having the same intellectual discipline as other civilized countries?

Beware of monotony; it's the mother of all the deadly sins.

I had the story, bit by bit, from various people, and, as generally happens in such cases, each time it was a different story.

The persons of their world lived in an atmosphere of faint implications and pale delicacies, and the fact that he and she understood each other without a word seemed to the young man to bring them nearer than any explanation would have done.

Misfortune had made Lily supple instead of hardening her, and a pliable substance is less easy to break than a stiff one.

Old age, calm, expanded, broad with the haughty breadth of the universe, old age flowing free with the delicious near-by freedom of death.

What's the use of making mysteries? It only makes people want to nose 'em out.

I feel that each case must be judged individually, on its own merits ... irrespective of stupid conventionalities... I mean, each woman's right to her liberty.

In any really good subject, one has only to probe deep enough to come to tears.

Though he turned the pages with the sensuous joy of the book-lover, he did not know what he was reading, and one book after another dropped from his hand. Suddenly, among them, he lit on a small volume of verse which he had ordered because the name had attracted him: "The House of Life." He took it up, and found himself plunged in an atmosphere unlike any he had ever breathed in books; so warm, so rich, and yet so ineffebly tender, that it gave a new and haunting beauty to the most elementary of human passions.

Everything about her was both vigorous and exquisite.

Nothing could more clearly give the measure of the distance that the world had travelled.

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