I am often mad, but I would hate to be nothing but mad: and I think I would lose what little value I may have as a writer if I were to refuse, as a matter of principle, to accept the warming rays of the sun, and to report them, whenever, and if ever, they
E. B. WhiteThurber did not write the way a surgeon operates, he wrote the way a child skips rope, the way a mouse waltzes.
E. B. White