No one can write decently who is distrustful of the reader’s intelligence or whose attitude is patronizing.
E. B. WHITE
Early summer days are a jubilee time for birds. In the fields, around the house, in the barn, in the woods, in the swamp – everywhere love and songs and nests and eggs.
More E. B. White Quotes
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No one can write decently who is distrustful of the reader’s intelligence or whose attitude is patronizing.
E. B. WHITE -
The city that is devoured by locusts each day and spat out each night. Third, there is the New York of the person who was born somewhere else and came to New York in quest of something.
E. B. WHITE -
You can dissect a joke just as you can a frog. But it tends to die on you.
E. B. WHITE -
It is not often that someone comes along who is a true friend and a good writer.
E. B. WHITE -
There is nothing harder to estimate than a writer’s time, nothing harder to keep track of. There are moments—moments of sustained creation—when his time is fairly valuable; and there are hours and hours when a writer’s time isn’t worth the paper he is not writing anything on.
E. B. WHITE -
Is there anything in the universe more beautiful and protective than the simple complexity of a spider’s web?
E. B. WHITE -
It is quite possible that an animal has spoken to me and that I didn’t catch the remark because I wasn’t paying attention.
E. B. WHITE -
Only a person who is congenially self-centered has the effrontery and the stamina to write essays
E. B. WHITE -
Writing is both mask and unveiling.
E. B. WHITE -
Reading is the work of the alert mind, is demanding, and under ideal conditions produces finally a sort of ecstasy.
E. B. WHITE -
There is hardly a waiting room in the east that has not served as my cockpit, whether I was waiting to board a train or to see a dentist. And I am usually still trimming sheets when the train starts or drill begins to whine.
E. B. WHITE -
We’re born, we live a little while, we die. A spider’s life can’t help being something of a mess, with all this trapping and eating flies. 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 -
I am reminded of the advice of my neighbor. “Never worry about your heart till it stops beating.
E. B. WHITE -
When 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.
E. B. WHITE -
A poem compresses much in a small space and adds music, thus heightening its meaning.
E. B. WHITE -
Loneliness is a strange gift.
E. B. WHITE