Trust me, Wilbur. People are very gullible. They’ll believe anything they see in print.
E. B. WHITEAn editor is a person who knows more about writing than writers do but who has escaped the terrible desire to write.
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.
E. B. WHITE -
Nationalism has two fatal charms for its devotees: It presupposes local self-sufficiency, which is a pleasant and desirable condition, and it suggests, very subtly, a certain personal superiority by reason of one’s belonging to a place which is definable and familiar, as against a place that is strange, remote.
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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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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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Writing is one way to go about thinking, and the practice and habit of writing not only drain the mind but supply it, too.
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The world is full of people who have never, since childhood, met an open doorway with an open mind.
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Life’s meaning has always eluded me and I guess always will. But I love it just the same.
E. B. WHITE -
One of the most time-consuming things is to have an enemy.
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Life is like writing with a pen. You can cross out your past but you can’t erase it.
E. B. WHITE -
Writing is hard work and bad for the health.
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.
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Sailors have an expression about the weather: they say the weather is a great bluffer. I guess the same is true of our human society – things can look dark, then a break shows in the clouds, and all is changed.
E. B. WHITE -
“What’s miraculous about a spider’s web?” said Mrs. Arable. “I don’t see why you say a web is a miracle–it’s just a web.” “Ever try to spin one?” asked Mr. Dorian.
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The essayist is a self-liberated man, sustained by the childish belief that everything he thinks about, everything that happens to him, is of general interest.
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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