"Edith Wharton"の名言

There are two ways of spreading light: to be the candle or the mirror that receives it.

There are two ways of spreading light: to be the candle or the mirror that reflects it.

I suppose there is one friend in the life of each of us who seems not a separate person, however dear and beloved, but an expansion, an interpretation, of one's self.

If only we'd stop trying to be happy we'd have a pretty good time.

They seemed to come suddenly upon happiness as if they had surprised a butterfly in the winter woods.

Life is either always a tightrope or a feather bed. Give me the tightrope.

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

Each time you happen to me all over again.

There is one friend in the life of each of us who seems not a separate person, however dear and beloved, but an expansion, an interpretation, of one's self, the very meaning of one's soul.

Do you remember what you said to me once? That you could help me only by loving me? Well-you did love me for a moment; and it helped me. It has always helped me.

Genius is of small use to a woman who does not know how to do her hair.

To know when to be generous and when firm—that is wisdom.

If only we'd stop trying to be happy, we could have a pretty good time.

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.

They seemed to come suddenly upon happiness as if they had surprised a butterfly in the winter woods.

True originality consists not in a new manner, but in a new vision.

High Pasture Come up--come up: in the dim vale below The autumn mist muffles the fading trees, But on this keen hill-pasture, though the breeze Has stretched the thwart boughs bare to meet the snow, Night is not, autumn is not--but the flow Of vast, ethereal and irradiate seas, Poured from the far world's flaming boundaries In waxing tides of unimagined glow. And to that height illumined of the mind he calls us still by the familiar way, Leaving the sodden tracks of life behind, Befogged in failure, chilled with love's decay-- Showing us, as the night-mists upward wind, How on the heights is day and still more day.

Her failure was a useful preliminary to success.

It had evidently not occurred to her as yet that those who consent to share the bread of adversity may want the whole cake of prosperity for themselves.

One of the surprises of her unoccupied state was the discovery that time, when it is left to itself and no definite demands are made on it, cannot be trusted to move at any recognized pace. Usually it loiters; but just when one has come to count upon its slowness, it may suddenly break into a wild irrational gallop.