From morning till night, sounds drift from the kitchen, most of them familiar and comforting. . . . On days when warmth is the most important need of the human heart, the kitchen is the place you can find it; it dries the wet sock, it cools the hot little brain.
E. B. WHITEThe main thing I try to do is write as clearly as I can. I rewrite a good deal to make it clear.
More E. B. White Quotes
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Writing is hard work and bad for the health.
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When I get sick of what men do, I have only to walk a few steps in another direction to see what spiders do. Or what the weather does. This sustains me very well indeed.
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Never hurry and never worry!
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The whole duty of a writer is to please and satisfy himself, and the true writer always plays to an audience of one.
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Writing is both mask and unveiling.
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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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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
E. B. WHITE -
Writing is an act of faith, not a trick of grammar.
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All writing is communication; creative writing is communication through revelation-it is the Self-escaping into the open.
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Before the seed there comes the thought of bloom.
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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 -
The main thing I try to do is write as clearly as I can. I rewrite a good deal to make it clear.
E. B. WHITE -
The rat had no morals, no conscience, no scruples, no consideration, no decency, no milk of rodent kindness, no compunctions, no higher feeling, no friendliness, no anything
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Prejudice is a great time saver. You can form opinions without having to get the facts.
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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