Books are good company, in sad times and happy times, for books are people– people who have managed to stay alive by hiding between the covers of a book.
E. B. WHITEYou can dissect a joke just as you can a frog. But it tends to die on you.
More E. B. White Quotes
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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.
E. B. WHITE -
To achieve style, begin by affecting none.
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A poem compresses much in a small space and adds music, thus heightening its meaning.
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I believe in dreams. People should have faith in the songs poets sing.
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No one can write decently who is distrustful of the reader’s intelligence or whose attitude is patronizing.
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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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Semi-colons only prove that the author has been to college.
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Reading is the work of the alert mind, is demanding, and under ideal conditions produces finally a sort of ecstasy.
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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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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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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.
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I am still encouraged to go on. I wouldn’t know where else to go.
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Why did you do all this for me?’ he asked. ‘I don’t deserve it. I’ve never done anything for you.’ ‘You have been my friend,’ replied Charlotte. ‘That in itself is a tremendous thing.
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Writing is one way to go about thinking, and the practice and habit of writing not only drain the mind but supply it, too.
E. B. WHITE