(1899–1985)
U.S. writer
E. B. White
There is no word in the language for end-of-summer sadness, but the human spirit has a word for it and picks up the first sound of its approach.
“Cold Weather,” in One Man’s Meat (New York: Harper & Row, Publishers, 1944), 349.
The locust trees shiver a bit, even in the sunlight; and the poplars are talking together in such loud whispers I can hear them way over here. They are discussing September (if you must know).
Letters of E. B. White, rev. edition edited by Martha White (New York: Harper Perennial, 2007), 66.
For an old man, a canoe is ideal—he need only sit still and move his arms. My first boat was an Old Town green canoe, and my last boat is the same. In between there were many.
Letters of E. B. White, rev. edition edited by Martha White (New York: Harper Perennial, 2007), 642.
It is quite obvious that the human race has made a queer mess of life on this planet. But as a people we probably harbor seeds of goodness that have lain for a long time, waiting to sprout when the conditions are right. Man’s curiosity, his relentlessness, his inventiveness, his ingenuity have led him into deep trouble. We can only hope that these same traits will enable him to claw his way out.
Letters of E. B. White, rev. edition edited by Martha White (New York: Harper Perennial, 2007), 596.
I soon realized I had made no mistake in my choice of a wife. I was helping her pack an overnight bag one afternoon when she said, ‘Put in some tooth twine. I knew then that a girl who called dental floss tooth twine was the girl for me. It had been a long search, but it was worth it.
Letters of E. B. White, rev. edition edited by Martha White (New York: Harper Perennial, 2007), 81.
For about a month now we have had solid cold—firm, business-like cold that stalked in and took charge of the countryside as a brisk housewife might take charge of someone else’s kitchen in an emergency.
“Cold Weather,” in One Man’s Meat (New York: Harper & Row, Publishers, 1944), 346.
They heard and felt the breath of spring, and they stirred with new life and hope. There was a good, new smell in the air, a smell of earth waking after its long sleep.
The Trumpet of the Swan (New York: HarperCollins, 2000), 9.
I’ve discovered that one’s “ideal editor” changes as one ages. At 83, with one eye gone and a lot of my hearing, my ideal editor is a young woman, preferably a pretty one, who doesn’t necessarily know anything about prose but who is a good driver and willing to take me on long journeys in my car.
Letters of E. B. White, rev. edition edited by Martha White (New York: Harper Perennial, 2007), 664.
To me, Nature is continuously absorbing—that is, she is a twenty-four-hour proposition, fifty-two weeks of the year—but to radio people, Nature is an oddity tinged with malevolence and worthy of note only in her more violent moments. The radio either lets Nature alone or gives her the full treatment, as it did at the approach of the hurricane called Edna.
“The Eye of Edna,” New Yorker, September 25, 1954.
“Well, I am pretty,” replied Charlotte. “There’s no denying that. Almost all spiders are rather nice-looking. I’m not as flashy as some, but I’ll do.”
Charlotte’s Web (New York: Harper Collins, 2001), 37.
Anyone who writes down to children is simply wasting his time. You have to write up, not down. Children are demanding. They are the most attentive, curious, eager, observant, sensitive, quick, and generally congenial readers on earth. They accept, almost without question, anything you present them with, as long as it is presented honestly, fearlessly, and clearly. I handed them, against the advice of experts, a mouse-boy, and they accepted it without a quiver. In Charlotte’s Web, I gave them a literate spider, and they took that.
The Paris Review Interviews, vol. IV (New York: Picador, 2009), 147.
Children are game for anything. I throw them hard words, and they backhand them over the net. They love words that give them a hard time, provided they are in a context that absorbs their attention. I’m lucky again—my own vocabulary is small, compared to most writers, and I tend to use the short words. So it’s no problem for me to write for children. We have a lot in common.
The Paris Review Interviews, vol. IV (New York: Picador, 2009), 147.