A Quote by Edith Wharton

She gave so many reasons that I've forgotten them all. — © Edith Wharton
She gave so many reasons that I've forgotten them all.
I'm a huge fan of Beyonce for so many reasons, and not the reasons that most people are. There's the obvious reasons - she's gorgeous, she's talented or whatever, but I think she's really super-consistent.
One of the reasons so many kids bought 'Famous Monsters' was that it gave them ability to order 8mm and Super-8 versions of their favorite monster movies.
Name ten thousand reasons why you never want to die, go and tell someone who might've forgotten. Try to list the endless reasons why it's good to be alive, and then just smile for a while about them.
She existed in her friends; there she was. All the parts of herself she'd forgotten. She knew herself best when she was with them.
I like PETA as a group for many reasons, but one of the reasons that I admire them is that they say and do the things that other groups won't do.
If a hamster has too many babies she knows she cannot carry, she not only abandons them, but she eats them. That means she doesn't have to go out and hunt for food for herself.
There are many good reasons to fear a nuclear Iran, but also many good reasons to fear the consequences of launching a preventive military strike against Iran. If the president, whoever it is, wants to do the latter, he or she should - indeed, under the Constitution, must - go to Congress.
She had forgotten them all; forgotten Richard down in the mud, and the marquis and his foolish crossbow, and the world. She was delighted and transported, in a perfect place, the world she lived for. Her world contained two things: Hunter, and the Beast. The Beast knew that too. It was the perfect match, the hunter and the hunted. And who was who, and which was which, only time would reveal; time and the dance.
Margaret Thatcher inherited the sick man of Europe in 1979 and transformed it into a powerhouse. When she left office, it was Britain redefined. And of course the frosting on the cake was her action in the Falklands, where she gave Britain back some of its pizzazz, addressed some past yearning and great memories. So she gave them back their pride. That was the first great thing she did.
She looked around herself, disoriented, like she’d forgotten we were at lunch. Like she’d forgotten we were even at school-surprised that we were not alone in some private place. I understood that feeling exactly. It was hard to remember the rest of the world when I was with her.
Playing Aung San Suu Kyi was a journey in itself. She represents many things for many people and for many reasons. Although I have played many important roles in my life, I can say that this role has been a journey of self-realisation.
The one characteristic of authentic power that most people overlook is humbleness. It is important for many reasons. A humble person walks in a friendly world. He or she sees friends everywhere he or she looks, wherever he or she goes, whomever he or she meets. His or her perception goes beyond the shell of appearance and into essence.
Rosa Parks inspired many. She will not be forgotten.
I've forgotten the words with which to tell you. I knew them once, but I've forgotten them, and now I'm talking to you without them.
Hollywood and Disneyland are the legacy of Europe's cultural imperialism. We gave them nursery rhymes and they gave back film. Televised riots are as American as Barbie/ Big Macs. Tomorrow the riots will be forgotten but Mickey mouse will still be there. Welcome to Disneyland.
She wrote poetry constantly; that was her "work". She was a slow bleeder and she slaved over it for long, exhausting hours, and many a middle of a night I could hear her creaking around the dead house with a pen in one hand, a clipboard and a flashlight in the other, refining her poems, jotting down the lines of a conceit. Writing never came easy for her; it gave her calluses. She never courted the muses, she wrestled them, mauled them all over the house and came up, after weeks of peripatetic labor, with a slim Spencerian sonnet, fourteen lines of imagistic jabberwocky.
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