The act of reading ... begins on a flat surface, counter or page, and then gets stirred and chopped and blended until what we make, in the end, is a dish, or story, all our own.
— Adam Gopnik
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August 11, 2010

Edith Wharton (1862-1937)

The last days were serene ones. The loveliest of St. Brice summers drifted by, and Edith drifted with the days, gazing out at the garden from the chaise longue or moving slowly about it in the wheelchair, dozing, remembering, planning small bequests. On August 4, she wrote a line to Matilda Gay at Le Breau:  I am just sending you this line by Elisina,  to tell you how sorry I am not to be able to go with her to see you this afternoon. I should have been quite willing to go, but Elisina and my maid behaved so awfully about it that I had no alternative but to go on dozing on the sofa.'
It was a last little flash of the old spirit, but the handwriting was tremulous and ran all over the page. Edith Wharton died a week later, just before six on the evening of Wednesday, August 11.

-- R.W.B. Lewis, Edith Wharton:  A Biography


Coffee and a Book Chick said...

Oh, it because I am reading The House of Mirth right now that the passage you selected to remind us of her passing is today and is so beautifully written? Wonderful selection, and thanks for reminding us all --Edith Wharton is a wonderful writer and I'm so in love with what I'm reading now.

Coffee and a Book Chick said...

I meant to add that it is because I am reading The House of Mirth that the passage you selected made me tear up, sorry for the typo! :|

Joan Hunter Dunn said...

It's always interesting to know about people's deaths - when and a little bit about it. So thank you for Edith's. Hope that doesn't sound morbid.

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