If there is one thing I can't stand, it is stupidity. I always say that stupidity is the Sin against the Holy Ghost. - T. H. White

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If there is one thing I can't stand, it is stupidity. I always say that stupidity is the Sin against the Holy Ghost.

English
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About T. H. White

Terence Hanbury White (29 May 1906 – 17 January 1964) was an English author best known for his Arthurian novels.

Biography information from Wikiquote

Also Known As

Pen Names: James Aston
Native Name: Terence Hanbury White
Alternative Names: T.H. White

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Additional quotes by T. H. White

He did not see a hero of romance, but a plain man who had done his best — not a leader of chivalry, but the pupil who had tried to be faithful to his curious master, the magician, by thinking all the time — not Arthur of England, but a lonely old gentleman who had worn his crown for half a lifetime in the teeth of fate.

It was a grey September day, with the blue and copper butterflies flitting in the after-grass, the partridges calling like crickets, the blackberries colouring, and the hazel nuts still nursing their tasteless little kernels in the cradles of cotton wool.

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But it was no good trying to tell about the beauty. It was just that life was beautiful beyond belief, and that is a kind of joy which has to be lived.

Sometimes, when they came down from the cirrus levels to catch a better wind, they would find themselves among the flocks of cumulus: huge towers of modeled vapor, looking as white as Monday's washing d as solid as meringues. Perhaps one of these piled-up blossoms of the sky, these snow-white droppings of a gigantic Pegasus, would lie before them several miles away. They would set their course toward it, seeing it grow bigger silently and imperceptibly, a motionless growth; and then, when they were at it, when they were about to bang their noses with a shock against its seeming solid mass, the sun would dim. Wraiths of mist suddenly moving like serpents of the air would coil about them for a second. Grey damp would be around them, and the sun, a copper penny, would fade away. The wings next to their own wings would shade into vacancy, until each bird was a lonely sound in cold annihilation, a presence after uncreation. And there they would hang in chartless nothing, seemingly without speed or left or right or top or bottom, until as suddenly as ever the copper penny glowed and the serpents writhed. Then, in a moment of time, they would be in the jeweled world once more: a sea under them like turquoise and all the gorgeous palaces of heaven new created, with the dew of Eden not yet dry.

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