No one can write decently who is distrustful of the reader's intelligence or whose attitude is patronizing.
E. B. WhiteIn 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. WhiteWriting is one way to go about thinking, and the practice and habit of writing not only drain the mind but supply it, too.
E. B. WhiteA shaft of sunlight at the end of a dark afternoon, a note of music, and the way the back of a babyโs neck smells if itโs mother keeps it tidy,โ answered Henry. โCorrect,โ said Stuart. โThose are the important things. You forgot one thing, though. Mary Bendix, what did Henry Rackmeyer forget?โ โHe forgot ice cream with chocolate sauce on it,โ said Mary quickly.
E. B. White