Quote

The ideal view for daily writing, hour for hour, is the blank brick wall of a cold-storage warehouse. Failing this, a stretch of sky will do, cloudless if possible.

Edna Ferber

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Edna Ferber
Age: 80 †
Born: 1887
Born: August 15
Died: 1968
Died: April 16
Journalist
Novelist
Playwright
Screenwriter
Writer
Appleton
Wisconsin
Hours
Sky
Storage
Writing
Hour
Brick
Failing
Bricks
View
Stretch
Wall
Blank
Cold
Ideal
Views
Daily
Cloudless
Possible
Ideals
Warehouse

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But I have felt that to be a Jew was, in some ways at least, to be especially privileged.
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There is an interesting resemblance in the speeches of dictators, no matter what country they may hail from or what language they may speak.
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In New York the sky is bluer, and the grass is greener, and the girls are prettier, and the steaks are thicker, and the buildings are higher, and the streets are wider, and the air is finer, than the sky, or the grass, or the girls, or the steaks, or the air of any place else in the world.
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A woman can look both moral and exciting... if she also looks as if it was quite a struggle.
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I'm tired of hearing you men say that this and that and the other isn't woman's work. Any work is woman's work that a woman can do well.
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Bizarre as was the name she bore, Kim Ravenal always said she was thankful it had been no worse.
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Take Texas the way Texas takes bourbon. Straight. It goes down easier.
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People permit life to slide past them like a deft pickpocket, their purse-not yet missed and now too late-in his hand.
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But almost any place is Baghdad if you don't know what will happen in it.
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Writers should be read but not seen. Rarely are they a winsome sight.
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To be alive is a fine thing. It is the finest thing in the world, though hazardous. It is a unique thing. It happens only once in a lifetime. To be alive, to know consciously that you are alive, and to relish that knowledge -- this is a kind of magic. Or it may be a kind of madness, exhilarating but harmless.
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A story must simmer in its own juice for months or even years before it's ready to serve.
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Christmas is not a season. It is a feeling.
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You lose in the end unless you know how the wheel is fixed or can fix it yourself.
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Life can't ever really defeat a writer who is in love with writing, for life itself is a writer's lover until death – fascinating, cruel, lavish, warm, cold, treacherous, constant.
Edna Ferber
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Now gae your wa'sTho'anes as gude As ever happit flesh and blude, Yet part we maunthe case sae hard is, Amang the writers and the bardies That lang they'll brook the auld I trow, Or neibours cry,'Weel brook the new'.
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A placated bully is a hand-fed bully.
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The writer is a writer because he cannot help it. It is a compulsion.
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Living the past is a dull and lonely business looking back strains the neck muscles, causing you to bump into people not going your way.
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A stricken tree, a living thing, so beautiful, so dignified, so admirable in its potential longevity, is, next to man, perhaps the most touching of wounded objects.
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