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.
E. B. WHITESalutations; it’s just my fancy way of saying hello or good morning
More E. B. White Quotes
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Trust me, Wilbur. People are very gullible. They’ll believe anything they see in print.
E. B. WHITE -
Life is like writing with a pen. You can cross out your past but you can’t erase it.
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 -
No one should come to New York to live unless he is willing to be lucky.
E. B. WHITE -
In every queen there’s a touch of floozy.
E. B. WHITE -
You have been my friend. That in itself is a tremendous thing. I wove my webs for you because I liked you. After all, what’s a life, anyway?
E. B. WHITE -
Writing is an act of faith, not a trick of grammar.
E. B. WHITE -
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. WHITE -
I arise in the morning torn between a desire to improve the world and a desire to enjoy the world. This makes it hard to plan the day.
E. B. WHITE -
Mother: It’s broccoli, dear. — Child: I say it’s spinach, and I say the hell with it.
E. B. WHITE -
It is not often that someone comes along who is a true friend and a good writer.
E. B. WHITE -
Writing is hard work and bad for the health.
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 -
A writer’s style reveals something of his spirit, his habits, his capacites, his bias…it is the Self escaping into the open.
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