The whole problem is to establish communication with ones self.
E. B. WHITEThe 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.
More E. B. White Quotes
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If a man is to be obsessed by something, I suppose a boat is as good as anything, perhaps a bit better than most.
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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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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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Writing is hard work and bad for the health.
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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.
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I don’t know which is more discouraging, literature or chickens.
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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.
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I have one share in corporate Earth, and I am nervous about the management.
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Extreme cold when it first arrives seems to generate cheerfulness and sociability. For a few hours all life’s dubious problems are dropped in favor of the clear and congenial task of keeping alive.
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Mother: It’s broccoli, dear. — Child: I say it’s spinach, and I say the hell with it.
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“What’s miraculous about a spider’s web?” said Mrs. Arable. “I don’t see why you say a web is a miracle–it’s just a web.” “Ever try to spin one?” asked Mr. Dorian.
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When you say something, make sure you have said it. The chances of your having said it are only fair.
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The best writing is rewriting.
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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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There’s no limit to how complicated things can get, on account of one thing always leading to another.
E. B. WHITE






