Although anyone who's ever visited my home can attest to the fact that I am an ardent reader and collector of books, I still purchase a number of ebooks destined for use on one of my digital devices primarily through the Kindle app. The reason for this is totally consistent (at least I think it is) with the bookshelf content that greets me every morning when I head downstairs for coffee and the latest news...and while the ability to pick up a book and leaf through pages, whether in search of a particular passage or just for pleasure's sake, is a gift best learned early and cultivated throughout life, to be able to have the content of whole books accompany oneself, whether on a short drive across town or a longer journey of several nights' duration away from home, can be a comfort beyond description.
I remember those not-so-long-ago days when I headed to college across the continent, and one of the things that kept me from being even more depressed and homesick was a precious box shipped out in advance of my arrival and waiting for me as I entered that bare dorm room, holding a handful of my favorite books. Many years later but before the advent of the Internet, when work kept me out of town for the better part of the week in little towns or states many hours away from home, I considered the added bulk and weight of 2-3 books worthwhile just for their reminder of my life elsewhere.
I wonder how E. B. White, that wondrous writer whose name for me will always be synonymous with The New Yorker, would feel if he could see his Essays and New Yorker Writings uploaded onto my Kindle this evening. That hardcover book of essays was bought in New Haven in 1977 (an event notable enough for me to write inside the book itself) for the grand sum of $12.95, and while I knew his name from (of course!) Charlotte's Web and Stuart Little, I had not yet discovered the breadth and depth of what he had wrote for that magazine whose covers drew me to the news stand without exception every Tuesday or Thursday (the days when deliveries from the east coast appeared, weather permitting).
Through those essays I learned something about a sense of rhythm and cadence that comes from a writing style crafted in the manner of an easy, comfortable conversation. When done right, the flow of ideas can seem so naturally spontaneous, with grammar, spelling and punctuation all falling into place naturally...as befits the person who helped popularize William Strunk's The Elements of Style!
Of course, I dutifully did my share of exercises and writing papers that taught me how and why sentences and paragraphs needed to be structured just so...but as I read his essays, I began to understand how I could use all that to make my own writing seem less stilted and formal, and more the way I wanted to come across: as someone sharing not just memories or thoughts but instilling them with that intangible quality that comes from wanting to share something meaningful with the reader.
Writing letters as I did in those pre-eMail days with a fine point fountain pen and youthful eyesight, the effect on me was profound: I could write easily and quickly...in most cases I would think of something and have it written out almost immediately without being aware of any cogent thought process, and I stopped only to replace the paper or refill the ink (something in the scraping of the pen nib across the paper seemed more personal and involved than a ballpoint; I had my own set of 'snobbisms' to take care of as the years passed). In discovering the same sort of creative individual 'voice' in E. B. White's writing style that I wanted to convey in my own writings, I consider him still to be one of my 'muses' that helped shaped my own writing personality.
And what an unusual collection of influences! E. B. White...Edwin Denby...Anne Morrow Lindbergh...more on these as we continue this journey.
JOHN F. KENNEDY 11/ 30/ 63
WHEN WE THINK OF HIM, he is without a hat, standing in the wind and the weather . He was impatient of topcoats and hats, preferring to be exposed, and he was young enough and tough enough to confront and to enjoy the cold and the wind of these times, whether the winds of nature or the winds of political circumstance and national danger. He died of exposure, but in a way that he would have settled for—in the line of duty, and with his friends and enemies all around, supporting him and shooting at him. It can be said of him, as of few men in a like position, that he did not fear the weather, and did not trim his sails, but instead challenged the wind itself, to improve its direction and to cause it to blow more softly and more kindly over the world and its people.
White, E. B. (2014-02-18). Writings from The New Yorker 1925-1976 (Kindle Locations 3082-3089). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.
Springtime in the heyday of the Model T was a delirious season. Owning a car was still a major excitement, roads were still wonderful and bad. The Fords were obviously conceived in madness: any car which was capable of going from forward into reverse without any perceptible mechanical hiatus was bound to be a mighty challenging thing to the human imagination. Boys used to veer them off the highway into a level pasture and run wild with them, as though they were cutting up with a girl. Most everybody used the reverse pedal quite as much as the regular foot brake — it distributed the wear over the bands and wore them all down evenly. That was the big trick, to wear all the bands down evenly, so that the final chattering would be total and the whole unit scream for renewal.
The days were golden, the nights were dim and strange. I still recall with trembling those loud, nocturnal crises when you drew up to a signpost and raced the engine so the lights would be bright enough to read destinations by. I have never been really planetary since. I suppose it’s time to say good-bye. Farewell, my lovely!
White, E. B. (2014-02-25). Essays of E. B. White (Kindle Locations 2977-2984). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.
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