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don't you hate people who say they're not complaining and then complain?

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
Complain
Complaining
Hate
People

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Your idea of bliss is to wake up on a Monday morning knowing you haven't a single engagement for the entire week. You are cradled in a white paper cocoon tied up with typewriter ribbon.
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A writer's working hours are his waking hours. He is working as long as he is conscious and frequently when he isn't.
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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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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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No woman ought to pretend she's intelligent. And if she is she ought to have the intelligence to pretend she isn't.
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writers of novels are so busy being solitary that they haven't time to meet one another. But then, a writer learns nothing from a writer, conversationally. If a writer has anything witty, profound or quotable to say he doesn't say it. He's no fool. He writes it.
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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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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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Roast Beef, Medium, is not only a food. It is a philosophy. ... Roast Beef, Medium, is safe, and sane, and sure.
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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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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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Writers should be read but not seen. Rarely are they a winsome sight.
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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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There are only two kinds of people in the world that really count. One kind's wheat and the other kind's emeralds.
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Writing is not an amusing occupation. It is a combination of ditch-digging, mountain-climbing, treadmill and childbirth.
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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.
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Anything can have happened in Oklahoma. Practically everything has.
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We no longer build fireplaces for physical warmth—we build them for the warmth of the soul we build them to dream by, to hope by, to home by.
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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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Christmas isn't a season. It's a feeling.
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