In a sense the world dies every time a writer dies, because, if he is any good, he has been a wet nurse to humanity during his entire existence and has held earth close around him, like the little obstetrical toad that goes about with a cluster of eggs attached to his legs.
E. B. WhiteFamiliarity is the thing-the sense of belonging. It grants exemption from all evil, all shabbiness.
E. B. WhiteAll we need is a meteorologist who has once been soaked to the skin without ill effect. No one can write knowingly of the weather who walks bent over on wet days.
E. B. White