I admire anybody who has the guts to write anything at all.
E. B. WHITEEverything in life is somewhere else, and you get there in a car.
More E. B. White Quotes
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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.
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The main thing I try to do is write as clearly as I can. I rewrite a good deal to make it clear.
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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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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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Genius is more often found in a cracked pot than in a whole one.
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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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A poet’s pleasure is to withhold a little of his meaning, to intensify by mystification. He unzips the veil from beauty, but does not remove it.
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One of the most time-consuming things is to have an enemy.
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There are roughly three New Yorks. There is, first, the New York of the man or woman who was born here, who takes the city for granted and accepts its size and its turbulence as natural and inevitable. Second, there is the New York of the commuter.
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I am often mad, but I would hate to be nothing but mad: and I think I would lose what little value I may have as a writer if I were to refuse, as a matter of principle, to accept the warming rays of the sun, and to report them, whenever, and if ever, they
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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.
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A writer who waits for ideal conditions under which to work will die without putting a word to paper.
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Mother: It’s broccoli, dear. — Child: I say it’s spinach, and I say the hell with it.
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A poem compresses much in a small space and adds music, thus heightening its meaning.
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Safety is all well and good: I prefer freedom.
E. B. WHITE






