My last page is always latent in my first; but the intervening windings of the way become clear only as I write.
Edith WhartonThe taste of the usual was like cinders in his mouth, and there were moments when he felt as if he were being buried alive under his future.
Edith WhartonShe felt a stealing sense of fatigue as she walked; the sparkle had died out of her, and the taste of life was stale on her lips. She hardly knew what she had been seeking, or why the failure to find it had so blotted the light from her sky: she was only aware of a vague sense of failure, of an inner isolation deeper than the loneliness about her.
Edith Wharton