In the Words of E. B. White

Quotations from America's Most Companionable of Writers

E. B. White, Martha White

• Publisher: Cornell University Press
• Year: 2011
• eBook ISBN: 9780801463679

"The time not to become a father is eighteen years before a world war."—E. B. White on fatherhood

"I was lucky to be born abnormal. It ran in the family."—on luck

"I would really rather feel bad in Maine than feel good anywhere else." —on Maine

"The English language is always sticking a foot out to trip a man."—on language

The author of Charlotte's Web and One Man's Meat, coauthor of The Elements of Style, and columnist for The New Yorker for almost half a century, E. B. White (1899–1985) is an American literary icon. Over the course of his career, White inspired generations of writers and readers with his essays (both serious and humorous), children's literature, and stylistic guidance.

In the Words of E. B. White offers readers a delightful selection of quotations, selected and annotated by his granddaughter and literary executor, Martha White. The quotations cover a wide range of subjects and situations, from Automobiles, Babies, Bees, City Life, and College to Spiders, Taxes, Weather, Work, and Worry. E. B. White comments on writing for children, how to tell a major poet from a minor one, and what to do when one becomes hopelessly mired in a sentence. White was apt to address the subject of security by speaking first about a Ferris wheel at the local county fair, or the subject of democracy from the perspective of roofing his barn and looking out across the bay—he had a gift for bringing the abstract firmly into the realm of the everyday. Included here are gems from White's books and essay collections, as well as bits from both published and unpublished letters and journals.

This is a book for readers and writers, for those who know E. B. White from his "Notes and Comment" column in The New Yorker, have turned to The Elements of Style for help in crafting a polished sentence, or have loved a spider's assessment of Wilbur as "Some Pig." This distillation of the wit, style, and humanity of one of America's most distinguished essayists of the twentieth century will be a welcome addition to any reader's bookshelf.

THE WORDS OF E. B. WHITE

Aging

(see also Childhood, Youth)

Beginnings

I was born in 1899, which was a big mistake. Should have waited.

—Letter to Eleanor Gould Packard, October 20, 1982; The E. B. White Collection, Carl A. Kroch Library, Cornell University, Ithaca, NY.

You know what they were doing, don’t you, the year I was born—they were beginning to demolish the reservoir at 42nd and Fifth to make way for a public library to house the books that little Elwyn White would write when he got big enough to hold a pencil. I saw my first circus in Stanford White’s yellow brick Madison Square Garden, holding tight my father’s hand. I covered the opening of the Roxy and the Paramount for Talk….

—Letter to Carol and Roger Angell,* January 9, 1967; Letters of E. B. White, Rev. Ed., p. 497.

* For Christmas, White had been given Lost New York, by Nathan Silver.

Children are radicals. Youths are conservatives, with a dash of criminal negligence. Men in their prime are liberals (as long as their digestion keeps pace with their intellect).

—“Life Phases,” February 20, 1937; Writings from The New Yorker, 1925–1976, p. 112.

His woes, through being often stated,

Have grown, of late, attenuated,

And so he stirs the cosmic rubble

And writes of other people’s trouble,

Astonishingly fit to shoulder

The heaviest sort of human boulder,

They say that he has gone a year

And not let fall one honest tear—

Except a very tiny one

Upon a line he wrote in fun.

—“POET, Or the Growth of a Lit’ry Figure” (excerpt), April 6, 1929; The New Yorker.

Middle Age

The middle-aged, except in rare cases, run to shelter: they insure their life, draft a will, accumulate mementos and occasional tables, and hope for security. And then comes old age, which repeats childhood—a time full of humors and sadness, but often full of courage and even prophecy.

—“Life Phases,” February 20, 1937; Writings from The New Yorker, 1925–1976, p. 112.

I was thirty-eight years old today, and spent most of the day trying to build a henyard—which seems an odd milestone. The planks seemed heavy, and I noticed that I quit early and took a drink.

—Letter to Charles G. Muller, July 11, 1937; Letters of E. B. White, Rev. Ed., p. 149.

It is in his fifty-to-seventy phase that a man pulls in his ears, lashes down his principles, and gets ready for dirty weather.

—“Life Phases,” February 20, 1937; Writings from The New Yorker, 1925–1976, p. 112.

Before he reached the age of ten

The poet lived like other men.

Before he reached the age of twenty

He fell in love and suffered plenty.

And when he lyrically hinted

That life was tragic, it was printed.

The song he played upon his pipe

Looked rather well, he thought, in type.

—“POET, Or the Growth of a Lit’ry Figure” (excerpt), April 6, 1929; The New Yorker.

Old Age

At seventy, men are just beginning to grow liberal again, after a decade or two of conservatism.

—“Life Phases,” February 20, 1937; Writings from The New Yorker, 1925–1976, p. 111.

The men of eighty whom we know are on the whole a more radical, ripsnorting lot than the men of seventy. They hold life cheaply, and hence are able to entertain generous thoughts about the state.

—“Life Phases,” February 20, 1937; Writings from The New Yorker, 1925–1976, pp. 111–112.

Octogenarians have a more devil-may-care tactic: they are sometimes quite willing to crowd on some sail and see if they can’t get a burst of speed out of the old hooker yet.

—“Life Phases,” February 20, 1937; Writings from The New Yorker, 1925–1976, p. 112.

Today I read an entry in my journal—about 1924 or 1925—telling of an evening at 48 Mersereau, when Father and I played a game of poker after supper and Mother sat alone playing Parcheesi against an imaginary opponent, whose moves she made. The loneliness of old age struck me and I set it down on paper—a young man observing his parents. And now I know of it, not as an observer but at first hand. Every time I go back into my journals I am shaken by them—by how tantalizing they are, how awful they are, how little they tell (of events, places, people) and how much they reveal.

—Unpublished journal entry, June 20, 1965, 10:25 p.m.; White Literary LLC archive.

Israel Shenker’s visit to this decadent ranch a couple weeks ago was not one of those perfect occasions that we all dream about.* I greeted him with tachycardia and taciturnity in about equal parts, and I guess he left without a story, because I soon received an abominable questionnaire in the mail and had no choice but to sit down and answer it. Between the two of us, the Times’s celebration of my 70th acquired the taste of stale fruit-cake and reminded me of Morris Bishop’s remark some years ago when he read an interview with me by a Cornell co-ed: “You sounded like Ecclesiastes.”

—Letter to Frank Sullivan, July 14, 1969; Letters of E. B. White, Rev. Ed., p. 528.

* Israel Shenker had come to North Brooklin, Maine to interview White for the New York Times on the occasion of his seventieth birthday.

Old age is a special problem for me because I’ve never been able to shed the mental image I have of myself—a lad of about nineteen.

—“E. B. White: Notes and Comment by Author,” interview with Israel Shenker, July 11, 1969*; New York Times and reprinted by Borealis Press on a greeting card.

* July 11, 1969, was White’s seventieth birthday.

How should one adjust to age? In principle, one shouldn’t adjust. In fact, one does. (Or I do.) When my head starts knocking because of my attempt to write, I quit writing instead of carrying on as I used to do when I was young. These are adjustments. But I gaze into the faces of our senior citizens in our Southern cities, and they wear a sad look that disturbs me. I am sorry for all those who have agreed to grow old. I haven’t agreed yet.

—“E. B. White: Notes and Comment by Author,” interview with Israel Shenker, July 11, 1969; New York Times.

A writer certainly has a special problem with aging. The generative process is slowed down, yet the pain and frustration of not writing is as acute as ever. I feel frustrated and in pain a good deal of the time now; but I try to bear in mind the advice of Hubert Humphrey’s father. “Never get sick, Hubert; there isn’t time.”

—“E. B. White: Notes and Comment by Author,” interview with Israel Shenker, July 11, 1969; New York Times.

As for writing, I still write—at age 72. My experience is that I have to struggle harder, tire sooner, and come apart at the seams more completely than was the case when I was young.

—Letter to Maurice Root, November 15, 1971; Letters of E. B. White, Rev. Ed., p. 578.

I do not recall that he [Robert Benchley] ever “announced his retirement” from writing. There’s no such thing as retiring from writing. You just run out of gas.

—Letter to Gerald Nachman, March 15, 1980; Letters of E. B. White, Rev. Ed., p. 632.

Thanks for “Happy to be Here” and fo...

Table of contents

• A NOTE TO THE READER
• INTRODUCTION
• E. B. WHITE CHRONOLOGY
• THE WORDS OF E. B. WHITE
• SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY