I have one share in corporate Earth, and I am nervous about the management.
E. B. WHITEThe 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.
More E. B. White Quotes
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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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English usage is sometimes more than mere taste, judgment and education – sometimes it’s sheer luck, like getting across the street.
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I would feel more optimistic about a bright future for man if he spent less time proving that he can outwit Nature and more time tasting her sweetness and respecting her seniority.
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A poem compresses much in a small space and adds music, thus heightening its meaning.
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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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Only a person who is congenially self-centered has the effrontery and the stamina to write essays
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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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People are, if anything, more touchy about being thought silly than they are about being thought unjust.
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I am still encouraged to go on. I wouldn’t know where else to go.
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Make the work interesting and the discipline will take care of itself.
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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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Is there anything in the universe more beautiful and protective than the simple complexity of a spider’s web?
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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.
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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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Life’s meaning has always eluded me and I guess always will. But I love it just the same.
E. B. WHITE