Edith Wharton

Edith Newbold Jones Wharton - Literature Author - 1862 to 1937

Edith Newbold Jones Wharton – Literature Author – 1862 to 1937

Edith Wharton Short Stories

Full Name: Edith Newbold Jones Wharton

Time: 24 January 1862 to 11 August 1937

About: Edith Wharton, January 24, 1862 – August 11, 1937, was a Pulitzer Prize-winning American novelist, short story writer, and designer. She was nominated for the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1927, 1928 and 1930. Wharton combined her insider’s view of America’s privileged classes with a brilliant, natural wit to write humorous, incisive novels and short stories of social and psychological insight. She was well acquainted with many of her era’s other literary and public figures, including Theodore Roosevelt. More…

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In Trust

In the good days, just after we all left college, Ned Halidon and I used to listen, laughing and smoking, while Paul Ambrose set forth his plans.


"I can never," said Mrs. Fetherel, "hear the bell ring without a shudder." Her unruffled aspect--she was the kind of woman whose emotions never communicate themselves to her clothes-

Full Circle

Geoffrey Betton woke rather late--so late that the winter sunlight sliding across his warm red carpet struck his eyes as he turned on the pillow.


"You ought to buy it," said my host; "it's just the place for a solitary-minded devil like you. And it would be rather worth while to own the most romantic house in Brittany.


"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,

Mrs. Manstey’s View

The view from Mrs. Manstey's window was not a striking one, but to her at least it was full of interest and beauty. Mrs. Manstey occupied the back room on the third floor of a New York boardinghouse,

Coming Home

The young men of our American Relief Corps are beginning to come back from the front with stories. There was no time to pick them up during the first months--the whole business was too wild and grim.

Madame de Treymes

John Durham, while he waited for Madame de Malrive to draw on her gloves, stood in the hotel doorway looking out across the Rue de Rivoli at the afternoon
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