Understanding humor is like dissecting a live frog. It can be done, but the frog tends to die in the process.
E. B. WHITEI have noticed that most men when they enter a barber shop and must wait their turn, drop into a chair and pick up a magazine. I simply sit down and pick up the thread of my sea wanderings, which began more than fifty years ago and is not quite ended.
More E. B. White Quotes
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Every morning I awake torn between a desire to save the world and an inclination to savor it. This makes it hard to plan the day. But if we forget to savor the world, what possible reason do we have for saving it? In a way, the savoring must come first.
E. B. WHITE -
All that I hope to say in books, all that I ever hope to say, is that I love the world.
E. B. WHITE -
I am always humbled by the infite ingenuity of the Lord, who can make a red barn cast a blue shadow.
E. B. WHITE -
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.
E. B. WHITE -
A schoolchild should be taught grammar-for the same reason that a medical student should study anatomy.
E. B. WHITE -
Old age is a special problem for me because I’ve never been able to shed the mental image I have of myself – a lad of about 19.
E. B. WHITE -
Mother: It’s broccoli, dear. — Child: I say it’s spinach, and I say the hell with it.
E. B. WHITE -
Writing is both mask and unveiling.
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When an American family becomes separated from its toothbrushes and combs and pajamas for a few hours it considers that it has had quite an adventure.
E. B. WHITE -
Loneliness is a strange gift.
E. B. WHITE -
Nauseous. Nauseated. The first means “sickening to contemplate”; the second means “sick at the stomach.” Do not, therefore, say “I feel nauseous,” unless you are sure you have that effect on others.
E. B. WHITE -
An editor is a person who knows more about writing than writers do but who has escaped the terrible desire to write.
E. B. WHITE -
You have been my friend. That in itself is a tremendous thing. I wove my webs for you because I liked you. After all, what’s a life, anyway?
E. B. WHITE -
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.
E. B. WHITE -
Trust me, Wilbur. People are very gullible. They’ll believe anything they see in print.
E. B. WHITE