Stuart rose from the ditch, climbed into his car, and started up the road that led toward the north…As he peeked ahead into the great land that stretched before him, the way seemed long. But the sky was bright, and he somehow felt he was headed in the right direction.
E. B. WHITEWhen I get sick of what men do, I have only to walk a few steps in another direction to see what spiders do. Or what the weather does. This sustains me very well indeed.
More E. B. White Quotes
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Good deeds never go unpunished.
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An editor is a person who knows more about writing than writers do but who has escaped the terrible desire to write.
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The essayist is a self-liberated man, sustained by the childish belief that everything he thinks about, everything that happens to him, is of general interest.
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Life’s meaning has always eluded me and I guess always will. But I love it just the same.
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People are, if anything, more touchy about being thought silly than they are about being thought unjust.
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It is Sunday, mid-morning-Sunday in the living room, Sunday in the kitchen, Sunday in the woodshed, Sunday down the road in the village: I hear the bells, calling me to share God’s grace.
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I am always humbled by the infite ingenuity of the Lord, who can make a red barn cast a blue shadow.
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We should all do what, in the long run, gives us joy, even if it is only picking grapes or sorting the laundry.
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It can destroy an individual, or it can fulfill him, depending a good deal on luck.
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Television will enormously enlarge the eye’s range, and, like radio, will advertise the Elsewhere. Together with the tabs, the mags, and the movies, it will insist that we forget the primary and the near in favor of the secondary and the remote.
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If a man is to be obsessed by something, I suppose a boat is as good as anything, perhaps a bit better than most.
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Books hold most of the secrets of the world, most of the thoughts that men and women have had. And when you are reading a book, you and the author are alone together-just the two of you.
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The rat had no morals, no conscience, no scruples, no consideration, no decency, no milk of rodent kindness, no compunctions, no higher feeling, no friendliness, no anything
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A poet dares be just so clear and no clearer… He unzips the veil from beauty, but does not remove it. A poet utterly clear is a trifle glaring.
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By helping you, perhaps I was trying to lift up my life a trifle. Heaven knows anyone’s life can stand a little of that.
E. B. WHITE