Letters of E. B. White
Page 60
I discuss some of these things in a chapter called “Unity” in my latest book, called The Points of My Compass. You might find something useful in it, if you are pursuing this theme.
Sincerely,
E. B. White
To GEORGE H. HEALEY
Beaufort, South Carolina
16 January 1965
Dear Mr. Healey:
The packet containing Mr. Kohn’s meditations [an appraisal] has arrived safely, after a quick trip to Maine. Since I did not indulge myself in guessing, and since my confidence in Mr. Kohn’s judgment is complete, his evaluation of my papers is correct to the penny, and I am grateful to him for his labors.
In the same mail with the packet, I received an accusatory note from a schoolgirl who was desperately struggling with an assignment from her English teacher. “You are not too well known in Iowa,” she wrote. It is from children that one hears the plain truth about one’s self, and I wondered whether I should forward the letter to Kohn, in case he might feel in duty bound to knock a couple of thousand dollars off the grand total.
Thanks again for everything you and the other members of the Library staff have done in my behalf. I think one effect of this gift will be to bring me to Ithaca now and then. I’ve already wanted to consult my “archive” on a certain matter, and this clearly entails a trip to Cornell, where I can lose myself in a study of my own words.
Sincerely,
E. B. White
• On April 11, 1965, the Sunday Herald Tribune in its magazine section “New York” published an article entitled “Tiny Mummies! The True Story of the Ruler of 43d Street’s Land of the Walking Dead,” by Tom Wolfe, in which Wolfe gave his opinion of The New Yorker and its editor, William Shawn. Although the prose was colorful, the article shocked and angered members of The New Yorker staff, who knew and loved Bill Shawn. White immediately wrote this letter to the Tribune’s publisher. It was published, with several others, in the paper on April 25.
To JOHN HAY WHITNEY
The Tuscany
New York, New York
12 April 1965
Dear Mr. Whitney:
Mr. Wolfe’s piece on William Shawn violated every rule of conduct I know anything about. It is sly, cruel, and to a large extent undocumented, and it has, I think, shocked everyone who knows what sort of person Shawn really is. I can’t imagine why you published it. The virtuosity of the writer makes it all the more contemptible, and to me, as I read it, the spectacle was of a man being dragged for no apparent reason at the end of a rope by a rider on horseback—a rider, incidentally, sitting very high in the saddle these days and very sure of his mount.
The piece is not merely brutal, it sets some sort of record for journalistic delinquency, for it made sport of a man’s physical appearance and psychological problems—which is as low as you can go. If Mr. Shawn is not at ease meeting people in the hall, it should arouse, if anything, compassion, not contempt. And how can Mr. Wolfe, who does not inhabit these halls, state unequivocally that this so-called “shyness” is “deliberate”? The statement is worse than omniscient, it’s false.
For forty years The New Yorker has employed parody, irony, ridicule, and satire to deflate or diminish persons and institutions it deemed fair game. But I never saw it use brass knuckles, or the rope, or the police dog. The magazine itself is fair game for anyone, and so is its editor, because they are in the public eye, and I have no quarrel with the Tribune for taking off after The New Yorker. But your departure from the conventional weaponry of satire and criticism is unsettling; it shakes the whole structure of the free press, which depends ultimately on the good temper and good report of the people. There are always a few who will pay to watch some act of particular savagery in the arena, but I would hate to depend on their patronage for the building of a good newspaper.
Long before Harold Ross died, William Shawn was changing the character and scope of The New Yorker, and he is still at it. Wolfe’s violent attack on him is not only below the belt, it is essentially wide of the mark, in point of fact.
Sincerely,
E. B. White
To JOEL AND ALLENE WHITE
The Tuscany
New York, New York
Saturday [April 17, 1965]
Dear Joe and Allene:
Look at who rose to defend the New Yorker—the Trib’s own Joe Alsop. And very ably, too.
Thought you might like to see the latest skirmish.
Love,
Dad
To PATRICIA GREGER
[North Brooklin, Maine]
May 19, 1965
Dear Miss Greger:
Your letter got sidetracked at Harper’s, which is why this reply is so late.
I have encountered two taboos. One was death, the other was monstrosity. In “Charlotte’s Web,” the spider dies. My editor at Harper’s was not very enthusiastic about this development. Apparently, children are not supposed to be exposed to death, but I did not pay any attention to this. In “Stuart Little” an American family has a two inch mouse. This is highly questionable and would be, I guess, bad if it were stated in any other than a matter-of-fact way. A librarian read “Stuart Little” in proof before it was published and strongly urged me not to have it published but I did not pay any attention to that, either.
Television, I think, has more taboos than the book world. But I have had very little experience with television.
Sincerely,
E. B. White
To MORRIS BISHOP
North Brooklin, Maine
28 May 1965
Dear Morris:
You received such a pretty compliment in a letter I had from Susan Frank, I feel impelled if not obliged to pass it along. “Morris Bishop gave one of the finest addresses I’ve ever heard—in a beautiful English with every sentence turned out just right. I don’t think the University will ever find anyone to take his place.”
Neither do I. And I like to think of those sentences turned out just right, in their little hats set jauntily on one side and their starchy shirtfronts immaculate.
Yrs,
Andy
To KATHARINE S. WHITE
Hotel Algonquin
New York
[July 1965]
Monday evening
Dear K—
. . . I am pleased with the events of this day; my trip to see Dr. Morse [a dentist] was very worth while, as it shortens by two days my stay here.. . . .
Last night was the hottest yet. I dined at the Tuscany, and as I was finishing, in came Hawley [Truax] with Mary Petty and Alan Dunn, so I was summoned over to join them. Mary . . . wore her usual big floppy hat. Alan immediately pressed me about the fire hazard at our house, and was particularly concerned about our using spruce brush to bank the house in winter. Hawley was in fine fettle and was very funny about Blue Hill’s resumption of mining operations—he says it occurs in 60 year cycles and that the natives salt the mines, secretly. They all sent you their love. I drank a green mint and left them to their hilarity. Hawley and Althea sail for Europe next month on the Elizabeth.
Lunched today with Milton [Greenstein]. He feels, as I do, that we now have a full blown Fascist movement under way, and under the very most respectable auspices. Yesterday’s television, with Governor Wallace’s attack on the press and the Federal Court system, and the news reports of Saturday night’s riots in Harlem, was the most unsettling series of programs I’ve ever seen. The city is very strange this summer—alternately deserted and packed, and the nearness of Harlem always in everybody’s stomach. And to give it the final touch, we’ve just had 150,000 Nobles of the Mystic Shrine arrive, with their calliopes, balloons, fun vehicles, and little-boy antics. They look so terribly hot in those fezzes.. . . .
I go to the Chair tomorrow, so will end this and climb into bed and hope for some sleep despite the heat. I miss you and would feel easier in my mind if Joe and Allene were there.
Am glad I’ll be home in time to see Kitty.
Love,
A
To CHRISTOPHER S. JENNISON
North Brooklin, Maine
August 7, 1965
Dear Mr. Jennison:
Thanks for letting me see the sketch for the cover.1 It fulfills a lifetime dream of mine: to hold a pencil behind my ear. I’ve never been able to do it, as my ear sticks out too far.
Quite aside from making a dream come true, the design seems to me perfectly acceptable. The artist has somehow or other made me look as though I had hair on my lower lip as well as on my upper lip. Perhaps his lines should be lightened a bit to correct this false impression. I have a moustache, in the usual place, but have no growth of hair on the chin.
Sincerely,
E. B. White
To JOE BERK
North Brooklin, Maine
October 5, 1965
Dear Mr. Berk:
I would have written you long since, but on the morning the recording of Stuart Little arrived, I departed.1 I headed not north but south, and I was in search not of a bird but of a dentist. When I arrived in New York, I found additional copies of the recording awaiting me in my office at The New Yorker Magazine, but I found no player. And since all my friends are now dead, from old age, I did not try to rouse anybody up on the pretext of allowing me to use his record-player.
Now I am home again and have listened to Julie Harris reading my only begotten novel. She does it beautifully and I feel greatly in her debt, and in yours for selecting her. I know that to read a book aloud is a gruelling task, but Miss Harris never gave me any cause for worry. She is as perceptive as she is reliable, and she can read to me any time she wants to. Would you be kind enough to pass along my thanks to her?
My secretary sent me only one disk, failing to notice that they were in sets of two. So I still have the first half of the story to listen to. NBC, you may be amused to know, is at work on a television version of the story, and I feel in my bones that it will end with Stuart’s finding Margalo—thus bringing to an abrupt close the quest for beauty in America. As Don Marquis used to say, “Ah, welladay.”
Sincerely,
E. B. White
To JOE BERK
North Brooklin, Maine
October 26, 1965
Dear Mr. Berk:
You’ve already been very generous in handing out records, and I want to pay for this order.. . . .
Am enclosing a check for $15.92 to cover the bill. You would be foolhardy to take on my relations. I have, at last count, one son, two step-children, eighteen nephews and nieces, eight grandchildren, and a wild assortment of cousins and aunts—some of them impostors. I also have a great many great nephews and great nieces, a godchild and a great godchild. And a Merry Christmas to all.
Thanks for executing this order.
Sincerely,
E. B. White
To CHRISTOPHER S. JENNISON
North Brooklin, Maine
November 22, 1965
Dear Mr. Jennison:
I love the cover. I look just like Festus Haggin, which is good enough for me and should be plenty good enough for my readers.
Am returning it with my blessing. Let the presses roll.
Sincerely,
E. B. White
To CHRISTOPHER S. JENNISON
North Brooklin, Maine
November 26, 1965
Dear Mr. Jennison:
It’s delightful to be published by a house whose taste is so elevated nobody has ever turned on “Gunsmoke.” That’s the kind of publishing life for me. I don’t know what you people do with your Saturday nights, but I know what your secretary does with hers. She and I are curled up with the old Dodge City crowd—Kitty Russell, Matt Dillon, Doc Adams, and Festus. Give her my love. Ask her if I don’t look just like Festus.
Sincerely,
E. B. White
To JOSEPH T. WEARN
Gainesville, Florida
7 December 1965
Dear Joe:
I make a practice of swiping one sheet of stationery from every first rate hotel where I stop, like Castle Hill, and this gives tone to my correspondence.
I am writing simply to report a development of the story you told me about the boy who told his schoolmaster that alligators ate herons, pigs, small dogs, and beer bottles. While drifting south this morning on Route 17, trending towards Brunswick, I regaled my wife with this yarn, hoping to relieve the tedium of mid-morning on a national highway. She listened attentively and made no comment. About five minutes later she said, “I wonder how an alligator eliminates a beer bottle.” “That’s simple,” I replied. “He schlitz.”
I did not get a very strong response to this witticism, and we knocked off another couple of miles in silence. Then I asked Katharine, “Do you know how an alligator feels after he has passed a beer bottle?” She said, no, she didn’t know. “He feels sadder budweiser,” I said.
The response was still rather weak, and silence fell upon us again.
A few minutes later, my wife broke the awful stillness. “Pabst he does, and pabst he doesn’t.”
It seemed necessary to tell you about this, without trying to tell you of our enjoyment of our stay with you, which will come later, if nothing happens to interrupt our southing.
Yrs,
Andy
XIII
THE TRUMPET OF THE SWAN
1966–1970
* * *
• In the latter half of the sixties Katharine’s health improved, and White, in addition to writing the occasional Letter from the East and other pieces for The New Yorker, went to work on the third of his books for children. The Trumpet of the Swan was published in 1970. White also revised The Elements of Style and made a recording of Charlotte’s Web.
To ALISON COOK
[Sarasota, Florida]
January 30, 1966
Dear Mrs. Cook:
Thanks for your note.1 If my wife’s tears seemed to you to indicate a loss of courage or an access of sentimentality, it’s because you don’t know my wife. She has sailed through seven bouts of major surgery and four of minor without batting an eyelash or losing her nerve. She only cries on small occasions.
Sincerely,
E. B. White
To URSULA NORDSTROM
Sarasota, Florida
February 12, 1966
Dear Ursula:
Thank you for the gigantic postalgram. Everything about the show on Sunday, March 6, is going to be gigantic (except the hero, who is quite small). The beans that support the whole business are Green Giants, the audience will be gigantic (20 million), the promotional campaign is gigantic, and my reservations about the TV version are gigantic. Harriet Ames has mysteriously disappeared from the story—just slipped quietly away, probably on the recommendation of the consulting psychologist, a Mr. Charles Winick.
I hope your paper-white narcissus is flourishing, and I hope that you are. I finally forced my wife to give up raising paper-whites on the score that I was having enough trouble from pollenosis without their peremptory challenge. It’s a Pyrrhic victory, though. I really loved them.
Sincerely,
Andy
To JUDITH W. PREUSSER
Sarasota, Florida
25 Feb [1966]
Dear Judy:
Thanks for the nice newsy letter—I had been wondering about you, and I’m glad things are going well in your home and in your job.
I can understand how your friend feels, but although I’m sometimes pessimistic about man’s future, I don’t believe him to be innately evil. I’m more worried about his insatiable curiosity than I am about his poor character: his preoccupation with the moon is disturbing to me, particularly since his own rivers run dirty and his air is getting fouler every year. In Germany during the Hitler regime, there must have been a great many essentially good men who found themselves doing things, or condoning things, that were against their nature. Perhaps your friend’s father was one of them. Certainly there must have been a lot of young storm troopers who were caught up in the e
xcitement of the master race theory, and who needed a few more years on their heads to give them a sense of balance and proportion. Youth is headstrong, and with Hitler egging them on, it could only result in brutality and cruelty. The Germans are a disciplined people, and in this case, it was discipline run wild.
You asked whether I ever had “murderous thoughts.” Not really. There have been a few people I would have been glad to see dead, because they were causing such trouble in the world. But I don’t recall ever being so enraged as to be uncontrollable. I’ll have to work on it—maybe I can get madder as times goes on. . . .
Love,
Uncle Andy
To J. STEVEN WHITE
Sarasota, Florida
28 February 1966
Dear Steve:
I’m enclosing a booklet that has some pictures of Sarasota. Also a newspaper clipping about what happened when the high school students tried to put up the tent for their annual circus. The wind got ahead of them. Every year the high school gives a circus, under a tent called “the big top.” It is really a full-size tent, with three rings for the performers, and the kids are great. Some of them are the children of former circus performers who used to have homes in Sarasota when the big Ringling Circus had its winter headquarters here.
Rehearsals for the high school circus will be starting in a day or two, as soon as they get the tent back in place, and when you come down here, I’ll take you to watch the kids rehearsing under the big top. They do this after school hours, in the late afternoon.
I wish you would look up in your book on animals of North America and see what it says about otters. I saw an otter swimming by our dock, just a few feet off, in the salt water of the Pass. I thought otters were strictly fresh water animals, of lakes and streams.
Love from
Grandpa
To HARRIET WALDEN