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. WHITEYou 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?
More E. B. White Quotes
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I’ve got a new friend, all right. But what a gamble friendship is! Charlotte is fierce, brutal, scheming, bloodthirsty-everything I don’t like. How can I learn to like her, even though she is pretty and, of course, clever?
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The best writing is rewriting.
E. B. WHITE -
Every morning I awake torn between a desire to save the world and an inclination to savor it. This makes it hard to plan the day. But if we forget to savor the world, what possible reason do we have for saving it? In a way, the savoring must come first.
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Luck is not something you can mention in the presence of self-made men.
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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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Democracy is itself, a religious faith. For some it comes close to being the only formal religion they have.
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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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Well,” said Stuart, “a misspelled word is an abomination in the sight of everyone.
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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.
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Good deeds never go unpunished.
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A right is a responsibility in reverse.
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I see nothing in space as promising as the view from a Ferris wheel.
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The main thing I try to do is write as clearly as I can. I rewrite a good deal to make it clear.
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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.
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There’s no limit to how complicated things can get, on account of one thing always leading to another.
E. B. WHITE