And then, just as Wilbur was settling down for his morning nap, he heard again the thin voice that had addressed him the night before. “Salutations!” said the voice. Wilbur jumped to his feet. “Salu-what?” he cried. “Salutations!” repeated the voice.
E. B. WHITEAll writing is communication; creative writing is communication through revelation-it is the Self-escaping into the open.
More E. B. White Quotes
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When you say something, make sure you have said it. The chances of your having said it are only fair.
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Writing is both mask and unveiling.
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Loneliness is a strange gift.
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I get up every morning determined to both change the world and to have one hell of a good time. Sometimes, this makes planning the day difficult.
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Oh, I never look under the hood.
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Geese are friends to no one, they bad mouth everybody and everything. But they are companionable once you get used to their ingratitude and false accusations.
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Reading is the work of the alert mind, is demanding, and under ideal conditions produces finally a sort of ecstasy.
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Salutations; it’s just my fancy way of saying hello or good morning
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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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Extreme cold when it first arrives seems to generate cheerfulness and sociability. For a few hours all life’s dubious problems are dropped in favor of the clear and congenial task of keeping alive.
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Always be on the lookout for the presence of wonder.
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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.
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A candidate could easily commit political suicide if he were to come up with an unconventional thought during a presidential tour.
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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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Is there anything in the universe more beautiful and protective than the simple complexity of a spider’s web?
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Writing is hard work and bad for the health.
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Why did you do all this for me?’ he asked. ‘I don’t deserve it. I’ve never done anything for you.’ ‘You have been my friend,’ replied Charlotte. ‘That in itself is a tremendous thing.
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Everything in life is somewhere else, and you get there in a car.
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Hang on to your hat. Hang on to your hope. And wind the clock, for tomorrow is another day.
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Trust me, Wilbur. People are very gullible. They’ll believe anything they see in print.
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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?
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I would feel more optimistic about a bright future for man if he spent less time proving that he can outwit Nature and more time tasting her sweetness and respecting her seniority.
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No one can write decently who is distrustful of the reader’s intelligence or whose attitude is patronizing.
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Creation is in part merely the business of forgoing the great and small distractions.
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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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I am always humbled by the infite ingenuity of the Lord, who can make a red barn cast a blue shadow.
E. B. WHITE