I believe in dreams. People should have faith in the songs poets sing.
E. B. WHITENauseous. 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.
More E. B. White Quotes
-
-
It can destroy an individual, or it can fulfill him, depending a good deal on luck.
E. B. WHITE -
I have one share in corporate Earth, and I am nervous about the management.
E. B. WHITE -
Prejudice is a great time saver. You can form opinions without having to get the facts.
E. B. WHITE -
Before the seed there comes the thought of bloom.
E. B. WHITE -
Writing is an act of faith, not a trick of grammar.
E. B. WHITE -
No one should come to New York to live unless he is willing to be lucky.
E. B. WHITE -
The world is full of people who have never, since childhood, met an open doorway with an open mind.
E. B. WHITE -
Creation is in part merely the business of forgoing the great and small distractions.
E. B. WHITE -
I admire anybody who has the guts to write anything at all.
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 -
I don’t know which is more discouraging, literature or chickens.
E. B. WHITE -
“What are they, and where are you?” screamed Wilbur. “Please, please, tell me where you are. And what are salutations?” “Salutations are greetings,” said the voice. “When I say ‘salutations,’ it’s just my fancy way of saying hello or good morning.
E. B. WHITE -
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 -
A writer should concern himself with whatever absorbs his fancy, stirs his heart, and unlimbers his typewriter. … A writer has the duty to be good, not lousy: true, not false; lively, not dull; accurate, not full of error. He should tend to lift people up, not lower them down.
E. B. WHITE -
There’s no limit to how complicated things can get, on account of one thing always leading to another.
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 -
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. WHITE -
In a man’s middle years there is scarcely a part of the body he would hesitate to turn over to the proper authorities.
E. B. WHITE -
In every queen there’s a touch of floozy.
E. B. WHITE -
Oh, I never look under the hood.
E. B. WHITE -
Wilbur never forgot Charlotte. Although he loved her children and grandchildren dearly, none of the new spiders ever quite took her place in his heart. She was in a class by herself. It is not often that someone comes along who is a true friend and a good writer. Charlotte was both.
E. B. WHITE -
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.
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 -
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. 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 -
All that I hope to say in books, all that I ever hope to say, is that I love the world.
E. B. WHITE