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Well,” said Stuart, “a misspelled word is an abomination in the sight of everyone.

E. B. White

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E. B. White
Age: 86 †
Born: 1899
Born: July 11
Died: 1985
Died: October 1
Editor
Essayist
Journalist
Novelist
Poet
Screenwriter
Writer
Mount Vernon
New York
Elwyn Brooks White
E.B. White
Sight
Word
Everyone
Wells
Well
Misspelled
Stuart
Abomination

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But we have received a sign, Edith - a mysterious sign. A miracle has happened on this farm... in the middle of the web there were the words 'Some Pig'... we have no ordinary pig. Well, said Mrs. Zuckerman, it seems to me you're a little off. It seems to me we have no ordinary spider.
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The world likes humor, but it treats it patronizingly. It decorates its serious artists with laurel, and its wags with Brussels sprouts.
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A writer is like a bean plant - he has his little day, and then gets stringy.
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A poet dares to be just so clear and no clearer he approaches lucid ground warily, like a mariner who is determined not to scrape his bottom on anything solid. 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. A poet utterly clear is a trifle glaring.
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I seldom went to bed before two or three o'clock in the morning, on the theory that if anything of interest were to happen to a young man it would almost certainly happen late at night.
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The circus comes as close to being the world in microcosm as anything I know in a way, it puts all the rest of show business in the shade.
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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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Commuters give the city its tidal restlessness, natives give it solidity and continuity, but the settlers give it passion.
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I discovered, though, that once having given a pig an enema there is no turning back, no chance of resuming one of life's more stereotyped roles.
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A candidate could easily commit political suicide if he were to come up with an unconventional thought during a presidential tour.
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I have one share in corporate Earth, and I am nervous about the management.
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Not even a collapsing world looks dark to a man who is about to make his fortune.
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Life is always rich and steady time when you are waiting for something to happen or to hatch.
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Geese are friends to no one, they bad mouth everybody and everything. But they are companionable once you get used to their ingratitude and false accusations.
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If sometimes there seems to be a sort of sameness of sound in The New Yorker, it probably can be traced to the magazine's copydesk, which is a marvelous fortress of grammatical exactitude and stylish convention.
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I believe in dreams. People should have faith in the songs poets sing.
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New York blends the gift of privacy with the excitement of participation and better than most dense communities it succeeds in insulating the individual (if he wants it, and almost everybody wants or needs it) against all enormous and violent and wonderful events that are taking place every minute.
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Humour plays close to the big, hot fire, which is the truth, and the reader feels the heat.
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It seemed to me that I should have a desk, even though I had no real need for a desk. I was afraid that if I had no desk in my room my life would seem too haphazard.
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I am always humbled by the infite ingenuity of the Lord, who can make a red barn cast a blue shadow.
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