No one can write decently who is distrustful of the reader’s intelligence or whose attitude is patronizing.
E. B. WHITEA 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.
More E. B. White Quotes
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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.
E. B. WHITE -
Why did you do all this for me?’ he asked. ‘I don’t deserve it. I’ve never done anything for you.’ ‘You have been my friend,’ replied Charlotte. ‘That in itself is a tremendous thing.
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I don’t know which is more discouraging, literature or chickens.
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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.
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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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A schoolchild should be taught grammar-for the same reason that a medical student should study anatomy.
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Everything in life is somewhere else, and you get there in a car.
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I am always humbled by the infite ingenuity of the Lord, who can make a red barn cast a blue shadow.
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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.
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People are, if anything, more touchy about being thought silly than they are about being thought unjust.
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Be obscure clearly! Be wild of tongue in a way we can understand.
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To achieve style, begin by affecting none.
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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.
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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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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.
E. B. WHITE