Categories
- Antiques & Collectibles 13
- Architecture 36
- Art 48
- Bibles 22
- Biography & Autobiography 815
- Body, Mind & Spirit 144
- Business & Economics 28
- Children's Books 15
- Children's Fiction 11
- Computers 4
- Cooking 94
- Crafts & Hobbies 4
- Drama 346
- Education 62
- Family & Relationships 59
- Fiction 11838
- Foreign Language Study 1
- Games 19
- Gardening 17
- Health & Fitness 34
- History 1380
- House & Home 1
- Humor 147
- Juvenile Fiction 1873
- Juvenile Nonfiction 202
- Language Arts & Disciplines 89
- Law 16
- Literary Collections 687
- Literary Criticism 179
- Mathematics 13
- Medical 43
- Music 40
- Nature 180
- Non-Classifiable 1768
- Performing Arts 7
- Periodicals 1453
- Philosophy 65
- Photography 2
- Poetry 897
- Political Science 205
- Psychology 44
- Reference 154
- Religion 515
- Science 127
- Self-Help 86
- Social Science 83
- Sports & Recreation 34
- Study Aids 3
- Technology & Engineering 60
- Transportation 23
- Travel 463
- True Crime 29
Edith Wharton
Edith Wharton (1862-1937) was an American novelist and short story writer best known for her works exploring the lives and morals of the American upper class, including her Pulitzer Prize-winning novel "The Age of Innocence." Her writing style combined keen social observation with vivid, detailed prose, making her a significant literary figure of the early 20th century. Wharton was also an accomplished designer, traveler, and the first woman to win the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction.
Author's Books:
Sort by:
by:
Edith Wharton
"Unexpected obstacle. Please don't come till thirtieth. Anna." All the way from Charing Cross to Dover the train had hammered the words of the telegram into George Darrow's ears, ringing every change of irony on its commonplace syllables: rattling them out like a discharge of musketry, letting them, one by one, drip slowly and coldly into his brain, or shaking, tossing, transposing...
more...
by:
Edith Wharton
Mrs. Ballinger is one of the ladies who pursue Culture in bands, as though it were dangerous to meet alone. To this end she had founded the Lunch Club, an association composed of herself and several other indomitable huntresses of erudition. The Lunch Club, after three or four winters of lunching and debate, had acquired such local distinction that the entertainment of distinguished strangers became...
more...
by:
Edith Wharton
ARTEMIS TO ACTAEON THOU couldst not look on me and live: so runs The mortal legend—thou that couldst not live Nor look on me (so the divine decree)! That saw'st me in the cloud, the wave, the bough, The clod commoved with April, and the shapes Lurking 'twixt lid and eye-ball in the dark. Mocked I thee not in every guise of life, Hid in girls' eyes, a naiad in...
more...
by:
Edith Wharton
I Professor Joslin, who, as our readers are doubtless aware, is engaged in writing the life of Mrs. Aubyn, asks us to state that he will be greatly indebted to any of the famous novelist's friends who will furnish him with information concerning the period previous to her coming to England. Mrs. Aubyn had so few intimate friends, and consequently so few regular correspondents, that letters will be...
more...
by:
Edith Wharton
"Oh, there IS one, of course, but you'll never know it." The assertion, laughingly flung out six months earlier in a bright June garden, came back to Mary Boyne with a sharp perception of its latent significance as she stood, in the December dusk, waiting for the lamps to be brought into the library. The words had been spoken by their friend Alida Stair, as they sat at tea on her lawn at...
more...
by:
Edith Wharton
THE OLD ORDER. Prima che incontro alla festosa fronteI lugubri suoi lampi il ver baleni. 1.1. It was very still in the small neglected chapel. The noises of the farm came faintly through closed doors—voices shouting at the oxen in the lower fields, the querulous bark of the old house-dog, and Filomena's angry calls to the little white-faced foundling in the kitchen. The February day was closing,...
more...
by:
Edith Wharton
THE Hermit lived in a cave in the hollow of a hill. Below him was a glen, with a stream in a coppice of oaks and alders, and on the farther side of the valley, half a day's journey distant, another hill, steep and bristling, which raised aloft a little walled town with Ghibelline swallow-tails notched against the sky. When the Hermit was a lad, and lived in the town, the crenellations of the walls...
more...
by:
Edith Wharton
I Having begun my book with the statement that Morocco still lacks a guide-book, I should have wished to take a first step toward remedying that deficiency. But the conditions in which I travelled, though full of unexpected and picturesque opportunities, were not suited to leisurely study of the places visited. The time was limited by the approach of the rainy season, which puts an end to motoring over...
more...
by:
Edith Wharton
I "Undine Spragg—how can you?" her mother wailed, raising a prematurely-wrinkled hand heavy with rings to defend the note which a languid "bell-boy" had just brought in. But her defence was as feeble as her protest, and she continued to smile on her visitor while Miss Spragg, with a turn of her quick young fingers, possessed herself of the missive and withdrew to the window to read...
more...
by:
Edith Wharton
PART I I IT rose for them—their honey-moon—over the waters of a lake so famed as the scene of romantic raptures that they were rather proud of not having been afraid to choose it as the setting of their own. "It required a total lack of humour, or as great a gift for it as ours, to risk the experiment," Susy Lansing opined, as they hung over the inevitable marble balustrade and watched...
more...