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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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here in Texas maybe we've got into the habit of confusing bigness with greatness.
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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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I like any place that isn't here.
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Any garment which is cut to fit you is much more becoming, even if it is not so splendid as a garment which has been cut to fit somebody not of your stature.
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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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Anything can have happened in Oklahoma. Practically everything has.
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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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Writing is not an amusing occupation. It is a combination of ditch-digging, mountain-climbing, treadmill and childbirth.
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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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Christmas isn't a season. It's a feeling.
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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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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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The very rich and the very social are, often, the very stuffy.
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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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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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People in big empty places are likely to behave very much as the gods did on Olympus.
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Christmas is not a season. It is a feeling.
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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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Cherry cobbler is shortcake with a soul.
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