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
E. B. WHITEMost people think of peace as a state of Nothing Bad Happening, or Nothing Much Happening. Yet if peace is to overtake us and make us the gift of serenity and well-being, it will have to be the state of Something Good Happening.
More E. B. White Quotes
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No one should come to New York to live unless he is willing to be lucky.
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Salutations; it’s just my fancy way of saying hello or good morning
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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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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.
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I have one share in corporate Earth, and I am nervous about the management.
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Be obscure clearly! Be wild of tongue in a way we can understand.
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Creation is in part merely the business of forgoing the great and small distractions.
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By helping you, perhaps I was trying to lift up my life a trifle. Heaven knows anyone’s life can stand a little of that.
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Understanding humor is like dissecting a live frog. It can be done, but the frog tends to die in the process.
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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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In a free country it is the duty of writers to pay no attention to duty.
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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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Democracy is itself, a religious faith. For some it comes close to being the only formal religion they have.
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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.
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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