E. B. White

I liked to sail alone. The sea was the same as a girl to me - I did not want anyone else along.

Summertime oh summertime pattern of life indelible the fade-proof lake the woods unshatterable the pasture with the sweetfern and the juniper forever and ever . . . the cottages with their innocent and tranquil design their tiny docks with the flagpole and the American flag floating against the white clouds in the blue sky the little paths over the roots of the trees leading from camp to camp. This was the American family at play escaping the city heat.

Commuters give the city its tidal restlessness natives give it solidity and continuity but the settlers give it passion.

If the world were merely seductive that would be easy. If it were merely challenging that would be no problem. But I rise in the morning torn between a desire to improve (or save) the world and a desire to enjoy (or savour) the world. This makes it hard to plan the day.

A poet dares to be just so clear and no clearer he approaches lucid ground warily like a mariner who is determined not to scrape his bottom on anything solid. A poet's pleasure is to withhold a little of his meaning to intensify by mystification. He unzips the veil from beauty but does not remove it. A poet utterly clear is a trifle glaring.

Commuter - One who spends his life in riding to and from his wife a man who shaves and takes a train and then rides back to shave again.

Humour plays close to the big hot fire which is the truth and the reader feels the heat.

Humour can be dissected as a frog can but the thing dies in the process.

Democracy is the recurrent suspicion that more than half of the people are right more than half of the time.

His words leap across rivers and mountains but his thoughts are still only six inches long.

Reading is the work of the alert mind is demanding and under ideal conditions produces finally a sort of ecstasy. This gives the experience of reading a sublimity and power unequalled by any other form of communication.