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. WHITEYou’re terrific as far as I am concerned.
More E. B. White Quotes
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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 -
Loneliness is a strange gift.
E. B. WHITE -
Understanding humor is like dissecting a live frog. It can be done, but the frog tends to die in the process.
E. B. WHITE -
A writer who waits for ideal conditions under which to work will die without putting a word to paper.
E. B. WHITE -
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 -
A good farmer is nothing more nor less than a handy man with a sense of humus.
E. B. WHITE -
You can dissect a joke just as you can a frog. But it tends to die on you.
E. B. WHITE -
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.
E. B. WHITE -
Democracy is the recurrent suspicion that more than half of the people are right more than half of the time.
E. B. WHITE -
Writing is hard work and bad for the health.
E. B. WHITE -
I see nothing in space as promising as the view from a Ferris wheel.
E. B. WHITE -
The best writing is rewriting.
E. B. WHITE -
Luck is not something you can mention in the presence of self-made men.
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A poem compresses much in a small space and adds music, thus heightening its meaning.
E. B. WHITE -
We’re born, we live a little while, we die. A spider’s life can’t help being something of a mess, with all this trapping and eating flies. 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.
E. B. WHITE