Letters of E. B. White
Page 50
The city is quite warm and springlike on this February afternoon, and it seems to be full of out-of-towners who have drifted in for the Washington’s Birthday weekend. It is pleasant, but Maine was more fun. My neighbor’s sheep barn was full of new lambs, the cove was still partly frozen over, there was snow in woods and pasture, and the delicate footprints of the fox on his way across the pond. I hope all goes as well with you as can reasonably be expected, and I’m looking forward to the next “Plantations.”3
Love,
Andy
To NAN HART
[New York]
February 25, 1957
Dear Nan:
I am quite late in answering your letter, but I had a short bout in the hospital, and then went to Maine for a while. I’m distressed to hear about your failing eyesight, but I must say that you seem to be taking it in your stride, and your handwriting is practically as good as ever. I had no trouble at all with your letter.
My friend James Thurber is almost completely blind—he lost an eye when he was a child, and the other eye gradually went bad. For a blind man, he leads an amazingly active life, both professionally and socially. He turns out twice as much writing as I do, who can see. And he gets about and goes wherever he feels like going.
You asked whether any of my stuff had been included in the Talking Books. The most recently published book of mine, called “The Second Tree from the Corner,” was recorded, and I presume it is obtainable from the Library of Congress or wherever you get those books. It is a collection of miscellaneous stories, poems, essays, and comments. Some of them might amuse you. And it includes “Farewell, My Lovely,” the piece about the Model T Ford in which I arrived at Dot S Dot in the wonderful summer of 1922. Do you remember how you applied horse liniment to my dislocated elbow and succeeded in straightening it out? Another thing I remember well are those breakfasts that started with stewed rhubarb covered with heavy cream. But I mustn’t harp on my ambrosial past.
Tell Harry that he and I are at last in the same business. I acquired two white-faced calves last fall, on my place in Maine. One is a heifer, one is a steer. They are growing well, and although we have had a very cold winter in Maine, and they have access to hay in the barn, they seem to spend a great deal of time down in the wooded pasture, browsing like deer. They haven’t cost me, in feed, anything like what I imagined they would. If the heifer develops well, I may breed her, although she is a cross between a Hereford and a milking shorthorn.
I still continue to work for The New Yorker, but not as hard as I used to, and Katharine still holds down her job and works harder than ever. We both own about three shares of stock in the Northern Pacific Railroad—which should be a good excuse to ride out to Montana and take another look at the Crazies.
Yrs affectionately,
Andy
To H. A. STEVENSON
25 West 43
2 April 1957
Dear Steve:
I was overwhelmed to get the little book, filched from the library, and I hope I deserve it. Last night I went through it, seeing Will in every word and phrase and line—in Charles’s friend, in Burns’s poems, in the comma after each term except the last. What a book, what a man! Will so loved the clear, the brief, the bold—and his book is clear, brief, bold.
It may be that I’ll try to do a piece on “The Elements of Style” for The New Yorker. Perhaps you can fill me in on a few matters on which I am vague or uninformed (My memory is poor and needs jolting.) Do you recall the name of the course known as English 20?1 Was it called “English usage and style”? Was the “little book” on sale at bookstores in Ithaca, and were students in English 20 asked to buy the book? The title page says “Privately Printed, Ithaca, N. Y., 1918” and overleaf there is the mark of the “Press of W.P. Humphrey, Geneva, N. Y.” Would this mean that Will paid the bill for getting out the book, or would the University have picked up the tab? I am, as you see, ignorant on such matters. Do you know whether the book was used in colleges and universities other than Cornell? I take it no use is made of it by the English Department in this day and age; it would be considered too arbitrary, too cocky, too short. (“Omit needless words. Vigorous writing is concise.”) Did you come out of English 20 owning a copy of the little book? Do you still have your copy? For some reason that escapes me, I think I never had a copy of the book, even when I was a student in the course. I could be wrong about this, but I seem to remember being somewhat baffled (at first) by frequent references to “the little book,” not knowing what the “little book” was. Even now, I am not certain whether these pages come back to me as pages that I studied, or whether I simply remember the contents as they were reproduced in class by Will himself, who must have followed the book pretty closely. (“Make definite assertions.”)
If you can answer, and feel like answering, any of these tedious questions, I would be delighted to hear from you.2 Hell, I would be delighted to hear from you anyway. (“The lefthand version gives the impression that the writer is undecided or timid; he seems unable or afraid to choose one form of expression and hold to it.”). . .
Thanks again, Steve, for this gift. This is a late day (I almost said a “very” late day, but Will hated “very”) for me to meet up with “The Elements of Style” by William Strunk, Jr. I shall treasure the book as long as there are any elements of life in my bones. Hope you and Mildred will get to Maine again. If you do, you will get fed, not merely ginned; and I will put you in my 18-foot sloop and whirl you round and round. (“Place the emphatic words of a sentence at the end.”)
Yrs gratefully,
Andy
• Under the heading “Answers to Hard Questions,” White wrote a piece on city pigeons, which appeared in The New Yorker for May 4, 1957. It elicited from Margaret Lieb, a biology professor at Brandeis University, a poem about the untidiness of pigeons, ending with the stanza:
This is the reason for the lack of love
Twixt man and pigeons: while he likes the symbol
Of grace and peace, man, painting his own picture,
Resents all contributions from above.
To MARGARET LIEB
[New York]
May 13, 1957
Dear Miss Lieb:
Mens sana in corpore sano
Can always stand a pinch of guano.
Sincerely,
E. B. White
To GERARD W. SPEYER
[New York]
May 13, 1957
Dear Mr. Speyer:
I don’t feel that I know the answer to your question. My own disinclination to allow anything of mine to be published in Curtain countries arises partly from bewilderment, partly from a natural caution. Further, I am monolingual and have no way of knowing whether a translation is faithful to the original, short of hiring someone to determine the matter for me.
In theory, I favor the widest possible circulation of literary material that has merit, and this would include the crossing of national borders and curtains. But I am well enough acquainted with Communist zeal to know that the Communists are eager to get hold of the work of non-Communist writers, whenever they see a way to turn such work to their own uses and advantage. So I have been reluctant to give them a crack at mine. I’ve had several books published in foreign countries (England, France, Norway, Japan, and so on) and my experience is that when a book goes into another language and another country, it seems to swim out of my ken, and I never know what in hell is going on, assuming anything is. If this is true of England and France, I figure that it would be even more the case in Hungary or Russia.
But I say, I don’t know the answer. There are arguments for a course of action opposite to mine. Maybe it’s partly a matter of temperament. I think perhaps my attitude is simply: “You take down that curtain, you stop jamming that radio, and you can have my books.”
Sincerely,
E. B. White
P.S. An example of the way the Communist press grabs something and gives it a twist is the case of a Chas. Addams cartoo
n which the Hungarian press got hold of. It was a typical Addams picture—two monstrous little children playing with a toy guillotine. In Hungary, this was, I am told, published to illustrate the way children in America are brought up.
To AARON HARDY ULM
[New York]
May 16, 1957
Dear Dr. Ulm:
The pigeon stands somewhere between the swan, which is fiercely monogamous, and the domestic rooster, to whom one dame is like another. Pigeons pair off, two and two, and in his fashion the male pigeon is faithful to his Cynara.
By and large, after a male has succeeded in dazzling the little hen of his choice, he steadies down and is thereafter concerned with her alone, and with the nest that they build and tend together. This is usually the case, but as in most communities, there are some sports, some divergent personalities. I kept pigeons when I was a boy, and my recollection is that sometimes a cock pigeon would gather to himself two wives, and I’m not sure but that the reverse is true, too.
To answer your question: The male pigeon knows perfectly well whose eggs he is sitting on—he is sitting on the ones to which he has himself imparted vigor.
Sincerely,
E. B. White
To C. J. BROWN
[New York]
May 17, 1957
Dear Dr. Brown:
I am the lad who wrote “. . . the first faint flush of yellow jaundice” and I had quite a time getting it into the magazine over the objections of the copy desk. The cry of “redundant” was raised against me, and against it.
But while there are no other shades of jaundice than yellow, it is also true that the phrase “the yellow jaundice” is a common expression—one I have heard many a time. I think I heard it first when I was a child, living in a suburb, and I have heard it many times among country people in country circumstances. It is a little like “a red, red rose,” or “a little small dog.” Anyway, it wasn’t an “error” in that it was written deliberately.
Thank you for your watchfulness. You say you have an advantage, in that you are a doctor. But I have an advantage, too, in that I am not. I just listen to what people say, and sometimes, when a colloquialism serves my purpose (or seems to), I use it.
Yrs for healthy livers,
E. B. White
To ROBERT MOULTHROP
[New York]
May 31, 1957
Dear Mr. Moulthrop:
Thanks for your letter. I’m very glad to know that Stuart and Charlotte can take some of the pressure off an adolescent. I haven’t been an adolescent for a number of years but I can remember that the pressure was fierce.
Sincerely,
E. B. White
To KATHARINE S. WHITE
[North Brooklin, Maine]
[June 1957]
Tuesday after lunch
Dear K:
I have time for just a quick note B. F. (before Forrest).1 My rail journey was fine—they changed me into a room and I slept all night. But Bangor gave me a belly ache (beef in casserole at the Penobscot Exchange) and in Brewer, entering an upholstery shop in search of slip-covers for the car, I slipped in a mudhole and darn near pulled my insides out of me. So when I arrived home, in rain and cold and wind, I collapsed in coils and am just beginning to emerge. Today is lovely, with a warm sun. August [a dachshund puppy] is thriving—slept all night in the plant room without disturbing anyone. He is big, bouncy, and very able. Another Fred, I would say, but without such a heavy charge of original sin. This morning I visited Allene and the children on their sunny doorstep, which is one of the pleasantest places in town for sitting. Martha is really something to see now, with her pony tail, her healthy color, and her vast affection and good will. Steve looks very fine in a new, close haircut. Allene was in the shirt you sent from Sarasota and appeared happy and healthy. Have not seen Joe yet but have talked with him on the phone, and they are coming to dinner soon. Some asparagus has been put in the freeze already. The house is in a welter of curtaining. Our crab apple tree has never had so many blossoms. A borrowed hen is on 12 bantam eggs in a horse stall, and I have a broody of my own, which I shall set tonight on 5 goose eggs. Yesterday there were wild ducks on the pond, swollen (the pond) by recent rains. Everything is green and enticing, but the weather has been on the cold side, and I don’t think lilacs and apple blossoms are appreciably ahead of normal years—which is a break for you. Have not heard from Arthur yet, but imagine he will call tonight. Wearns due here Thursday, I am told, for a brief spell, so I guess I may see them.
Must go now, must arise and go on my many errands. I plan to start for New York in the car on Friday, arriving Saturday.
Love,
A
• Thurber and White were approached by Twentieth Century-Fox about the possibility of filming Is Sex Necessary? Both men were wary.
To JAMES THURBER
25 West 43rd Street
1 July [1957]
Dear Jim:
You got any idea what sort of monkeyshines 20th Century Fox has in mind? I presume Cary Grant would play Dr. Zaner and Sophia Loren would be Early Woman. The script would be by Tennessee Schmalhausen, and you and I would stand outside in the lobby making fudge, as a diversionary device.
The one thing that’s completely clear in Klinger’s letter is the phrase “at a low figure.” It is like Hollywood to expect to get the only complete survey of the entire sexual scene at a low figure.
Yrs suspiciously,
Andy
To RICHARD L. STROUT
[New York]
July 10, 1957
Dear Dick:
Greetings. Your letter to that poor fellow who is trying to diagnose my prose style was very generous. You had one fact wrong, though. The original MS, which you said was destroyed “many, many years ago,” is on my desk.1 Just out of curiosity I walked into our library a few minutes ago and asked the girl if it existed and she said, “Oh, sure. It’s right here.” And she reached over somewhere under a couple of boxes and handed it to me. It is MS #2442. Attached to it are a dozen or so “opinion sheets”—one editor talking to another. Also your letter to Ross, dated Mar. 21, 1936.
I asked the girl where my original typescript was, and she said, “Well that’s a different matter. Yours would be in the cellar, and it’s out of my jurisdiction.”
Just thought you’d like to know how we handle things around here. I’m a cellar boy. You’re right on deck.
Yours faithfully,
Andy
To FRANK SULLIVAN
[New York]
16 July [1957]
Dear Francis:
Everything worked out just as you planned.1 It was wonderful. The years fell away from my shoulders (along with a little dandruff), the cares and miseries vanished (along with a couple of gin-tonics), and I became excessively beautiful and dangerous to women—attractive, badly informed, overdressed, the whole works. You forgot just one thing—you forgot to get rid of the mosquitoes for me. Turtle Bay in July is the mosquito’s nursery and I am the mosquito’s baby. The truth is I came perilously close to missing attaining age 58 by the narrow squeak of just one night. I had perfected the technique of killing mosquitoes with a face towel, and on the night of July 10, spurred by many a small triumph, I climbed up on Katharine’s swivel desk chair, holding the towel in my right, hanging carefully to a nearby bookshelf with my left. I went into my windup, delivered, and I was wide and outside. As the mosquito passed me overhead, flying fast, I instinctively took another swing at him, and this time I forgot to hold on to the bookshelf. The swivel chair—which must be the pride of the Timken Roller Bearing Company—did a full turn, and I began a descent that came so near impaling me on the point of a bridge lamp that I am still shaking all over. On July 11, I was still alive, but badly bitten and badly shaken.
Anyway, your letter carrying birthday greetings was wonderful to get, and I can’t expect you to think of everything. I was truly amazed that you had thought of my birthday at all. My wife remembered it and took me
to a play about a man who arrived on earth from a planet where the people had given up sex. (She’s such a card.)
For us the rather melancholy business of breaking up our 48th Street apartment has begun. We walk by a chair and put the finger on it. We glance at a shelf of books and without a word from either of us, some book bites the dust but doesn’t know it yet. In the fall, all survivors will be loaded into a van and will start for Maine. And there, at the other end, the work will begin of changing “Joe’s room” into a “television room,” and other transformations of a doubtful sort. Where the piano will end up I don’t know, unless in the henpen. There is certainly no room in the house for it.
Thank you, thank you, sweet my Frank, for your lovely letter. And Happy Social Security to both of us, you a little sooner than I, perhaps, but no less social, no less secure.
Love from lucky old
Andy
To J. G. CASE
25 West 43rd Street
New York
July 29, 1957
Dear Mr. Case:
Thanks for your letter.
I’m enclosing my copy of “The Elements of Style.” You can see at a glance that Professor Strunk omitted needless words. Whether the book has other virtues that would recommend it to teachers of English, I don’t feel qualified to say. Some of its charm and value for me unquestionably derives from my memory of the man himself—his peculiar delivery of these rules of usage and the importance with which he managed to invest the subject. Sometimes the book, like the man, seems needlessly compressed, and it is undeniably notional. On the other hand, it contains several short essays that are gems; they still tickle me. My guess is that Will Strunk had a particular reason for writing this handbook: I think he felt the need of a labor-saving device in correcting papers. With the “little book” in the hands of his students, he could simply write in the margin of a theme: “See Rule 2.”