Quote

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.

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
Idea
Entire
Ribbons
White
Havens
Typewriter
Ideas
Haven
Typewriters
Paper
Monday
Single
Engagement
Cradled
Week
Tied
Ribbon
Knowing
Bliss
Cocoon
Morning
Wake
Cocoons

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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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Cherry cobbler is shortcake with a soul.
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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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don't you hate people who say they're not complaining and then complain?
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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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Writing, to be memorable, must be done in a state of impassioned serenity.
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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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A woman can look both moral and exciting... if she also looks as if it was quite a struggle.
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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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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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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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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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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.
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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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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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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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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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Christmas isn't a season. It's a feeling.
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