Some words from E.B. White

Amidst the knee-high stack of books I have borrowed from the library lies a collection of essays by E.B. White. Some of these are priceless, and worth remembering so that I may revisit them at some future date. Perhaps I will keep them in my bookshelf to share with others in years to come.

Bedfellows
An account of the news articles and viewpoints that one keeps by the bedstand, to be read under a lampshade's amber glow as the day draws to a close. Truman, Stevenson, Acheson, and...Fred. I read this on the eve of Chinese New Year, while quietly eating a plate of fried rice in Oakland before proceeding to a wonderful night of dancing. The SwingKats were kind enough to invite me over to their multiple-course feast, but White's account was, for the occasion, a superb dinner companion.

Unity
"The West has a real genius for doing approximately what the East wants it to do. We go to Paris and sit in stunned surprise while Krushchev bangs a cat against a wall. We go to Geneva and listen solemnly while Russia presents herself as the author of total disarmament and peace. We hasten to the Security Council room at the United Nations and earnestly defend ourselves against a charge that we have "aggressed." We join England for Princess Margaret's wedding, and next day we separate from England again, to return our trust to last-minute diplomatic conformity. We use the word "peace" the way the East likes to see it used--in the last paragraph of the President's formal speeches, and preceded by the adjectives "just" and "lasting," as though peace were some sort of precious stone that, once discovered, would put an end to trouble for all time. After the recent events in Paris, and the bruises of the night, it is not at all certain that the West should indulge itself longer in the pleasures of perfect political disunity."

The World of Tomorrow
"The road to Tomorrow leads through the chimney pots of Queens. It is a long, familiar journey, through Mulsified Shampoo and Mobilgas, thorugh Bliss Street, Kix, Astring-O-Sol, and the Majestic Auto Seat Covers. It winds through Textene, Blue Jay Corn Plasters; through Musterole and the delicate pink blossoms on the fruit trees in the ever-hopeful back yards of a populous burough, past Zemo, Alka-Seltzer, Baby Ruth, past Iodent and the Fidelity National Bank, by trusses, belts, and the clothes that fly bravely on the line under the trees with the new little green leaves in Queens' incomparable springtime. Suddenly you see the first intimation of the future, of man's dream--the white ball and spire--and there are the ramp and the banners flying from the pavilions and the brave hope of a glimpsed destination. Except for the Kleenex, I might have been approaching the lists at Camelot, for I felt that perhaps here would be the tournament all men wait for, the field of honor, the knights and the ladies under these bright banners, beyond these great walls. A closer inspection, however, on the other side of the turnstile, revealed that it was merely Heinz jousting with BeechNut--the same old contest on a somewhat larger field, with accommodations for more spectators, and rather better facilities all round." (How funny--White violated rule #1 in this paragraph)

Afternoon of an American Boy
"Do you recall an afternoon, along about the middle of the second decade of this century, when you took my sister to the Plaza Hotel for tea under the grossly misleading and false pretext that you knew how to dance?"

The Railroad
"The slowness of rail travel is not because the Horse is incapable of great speed but because the railroad is a gossip; all along the line it stops to chat at back porches, to exchange the latest or borrow a cup of sugar. A train on its leisurely course often reminds me of a small boy who has been sent on an errand; the train gets there eventually, and so does the boy, but after what adventures, what amusing distractions and excursions, what fruitful dawdling! A railroad has a thousand and one things on its mind, all of them worthy, many of them enchanting, but none of them conducive to swift passage for a seated customer. I think if a railroad is to profit from a passenger run, it will have to take the word "run" seriously and conquer its insatiable curiosity about what is happening along the route. Some railroads manage to do this, and I notice that when they do, their cars are usually well filled, and their pockets, too."

Will Strunk
"...Strunk was a fundamentalist; he believed in right and wrong, and so, in the main, do I. Unless someone is willing to entertain notions of superiority, the English language disintegrates, just as a home disintegrates unless someone in the family sets standards of good taste, good conduct, and simple justice."

Here is New York
"On any person who desires such queer prizes, New York will bestow the gift of loneliness and the gift of privacy. It is this largess that accounts for the presence within the city's walls of a considerable section of the population; for the residents of Manhattan are to a large extent strangers who have pulled up stakes somewhere and come to town, seeking sanctuary or fulfillment or some greater or lesser grail. The capacity to make such dubious gifts is a mysterious quality of New York. It can destroy an individual, or it can fulfill him, depending a good deal on luck. No one should come to New York to live unless he is willing to be lucky." (Rule #14 violated on multiple occasions...to beautiful effect)

(more)
"A poem compresses much in a small space and adds music, thus heightening its meaning. The city is like poetry: it compresses all life, all races and breeds, into a small island and adds music and the accompaniment of internal engines. The island of Manhattan is without any doubt the greatest human concentrate on earth, the poem whose magic is comprehensible to millions of permanent residents but whose full meaning will always remain elusive. At the feet of the tallest and plushiest offices lie the crummiest slums. The genteel mysteries housed in the Riverside Church are only a few blocks from the voodoo charms of Harlem. The merchant princes, riding to Wall Street in their limousines down the East River Drive, pass within a few hundred yards of the gypsy kings; but the princes do not know they are passing kings, and the kings are not up yet anyway--they live a more leisurely life than the princes and get drunk more consistently."

* * *

Of my many writings, I wonder if there are any that have approached the caliber displayed here...