Books hold most of the secrets of the world, most of the thoughts that men and women have had. And when you are reading a book, you and the author are alone together-just the two of you.
E. B. WHITEIn a free country it is the duty of writers to pay no attention to duty.
More E. B. White Quotes
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Safety is all well and good: I prefer freedom.
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Everything in life is somewhere else, and you get there in a car.
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Fern was up at daylight, trying to rid the world of injustice. As a result, she now has a pig. A small one to be sure, but nevertheless a pig. It just shows what can happen if a person gets out of bed promptly.
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Television will enormously enlarge the eye’s range, and, like radio, will advertise the Elsewhere. Together with the tabs, the mags, and the movies, it will insist that we forget the primary and the near in favor of the secondary and the remote.
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A good farmer is nothing more nor less than a handy man with a sense of humus.
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To achieve style, begin by affecting none.
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Old age is a special problem for me because I’ve never been able to shed the mental image I have of myself – a lad of about 19.
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One of the most time-consuming things is to have an enemy.
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Sailors have an expression about the weather: they say the weather is a great bluffer. I guess the same is true of our human society – things can look dark, then a break shows in the clouds, and all is changed.
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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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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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Early summer days are a jubilee time for birds. In the fields, around the house, in the barn, in the woods, in the swamp – everywhere love and songs and nests and eggs.
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Well,” said Stuart, “a misspelled word is an abomination in the sight of everyone.
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Creation is in part merely the business of forgoing the great and small distractions.
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A poet’s pleasure is to withhold a little of his meaning, to intensify by mystification. He unzips the veil from beauty, but does not remove it.
E. B. WHITE






