Is there nowhere in an American house where one may be by one's self?

— Edith Wharton

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.

— Edith Wharton

It frightened him to think what must have gone to the making of her eyes.

— Edith Wharton

It is less mortifying to believe one's self unpopular than insignificant, and vanity prefers to assume that indifference is a latent form of unfriendliness.

— Edith Wharton

It seems stupid to have discovered America only to make it into a copy of another country.

— Edith Wharton

It's more real to me here than if I went up," he suddenly heard himself say; and the fear lest that last shadow of reality should lose its edge kept him rooted to his seat as the minutes succeeded each other.

— Edith Wharton

It was before him again in its completeness -- the choice in which she was content to rest: in the stupid costliness of the food and the showy dullness of the talk, in the freedom of speech which never arrived at wit and the freedom to act which never made for romance. The strident setting of the restaurant, in which their table seemed set apart in a special glare of publicity, and the presence at it of little Dab ham of the "Riviera Notes," emphasized the ideals of a world where conspicuousness passed for distinction, and the society column had become the roll of fame.

— Edith Wharton

It was horrible of a young girl to let herself be talked about; however unfounded the charges against her, she must be to blame for their having been made.

— Edith Wharton

I want to put my hand out and touch you. I want to do for you and care for you. Furthermore, I want to be there when you're sick and when you're lonesome.

— Edith Wharton

I went on steadily trying to 'find out how to'; but I wrote two or three novels without feeling that I had made much progress. It was not until I wrote "Ethan From" that I suddenly felt the artisan's full control of his implements. When "Ethan From" first appeared I was severely criticized by the reviewers for what was considered the clumsy structure of the tale. I had pondered long on this structure, had felt its peculiar difficulties, and possible awkwardness, but could think of no alternative which would serve as well in the given case: and though I am far from thinking "Ethan From" my best novel, and am bored and even exasperated when I am told that it is, I am still sure that its structure is not its weak point.

— Edith Wharton