The blurb truly speaks volumes: “Renowned for his eloquence and wit, and widely taught due to his superb clarity, White stands as one of the greatest essayists of this century. Some of the finest specimens of contemporary, truly American prose.”-- “The Washington Post”

I hold such affectionate memories of reading Charlotte’s Web and Stuart Little to my children. However, this marks my first encounter with his essays. His writing is just as charming, poignant, and relevant today as it was when he initially penned these words. Wise and humorous, they are highly suitable for being read aloud. The narrator of the audiobook was flawless. I have a copy of the paperback in my cart, destined for my keeper shelf.

This served as a balm to my soul during an extremely sorrowful period. In a month, we lost both of our dear Havanese dogs within weeks of each other. I discovered solace in the loving way E.B. White writes about his dogs and other animals. There are only a few favorite authors who can write about the ordinary in an extraordinary manner. EB White has now joined my short list.

Beautifully written and an absolute pleasure. Thank you to my Goodreads friend Anne, whose lovely review led me to this book.

Not for me

This simple phrase holds a world of meaning. It can signify a personal choice, a sense of exclusion, or a feeling of not belonging. When we say "not for me," we are expressing our individual preferences and boundaries. It could be that a particular activity, hobby, or lifestyle doesn't align with our values or interests. Maybe a certain food doesn't appeal to our taste buds, or a particular social event doesn't excite us.

However, it's important to remember that just because something is not for us doesn't mean it's not valuable or meaningful to others. We should respect the choices and preferences of those around us and avoid judging or criticizing them. At the same time, we should also be true to ourselves and not feel pressured to conform to something that doesn't feel right.

In conclusion, "not for me" is a powerful statement that allows us to define ourselves and our individuality. By being honest with ourselves and others, we can create a more fulfilling and authentic life.

In an essay regarding the observation of a circus act rehearsal, White states,

"As a writing man, or secretary, I have always felt entrusted with the safeguarding of all those unexpected elements of worldly or unworldly charm. It's as if I could be held personally accountable if even a tiny one were to go astray." E.B White is an astute observer, and what his writing conserves is likely of greater value than the mere sum of its contents.

His descriptions are humorous and his wit is incisive (for example, "The Eye of Edna" and "Afternoon of an American Boy"). I appreciate his type of irony, which is more situational and less sarcastic, yet always clever.

However, his penchant for the absurd never overshadows his tenderness for life. When he writes about a resident raccoon and a pig on its deathbed, it is almost with the same affection as he recalls the landscapes of his boyhood or his fondness for the Model T.

If I recall correctly, White was involved in compiling this collection himself. The essays are divided under several section headings, with unpretentious titles such as "The Farm" or "The City." Only two essays are classified as "Diversions and Obsessions," more fall into the category of "Memories," and several others into "Books, Men, and Writing." (I believe, though, that the finest writing occurred at the farm.)

Another advantage: Among the dated essays are appended post hoc postscripts, sometimes written decades later. Usually, they serve as corrective amendments, so that the reader doesn't depart misinformed. But also, I think, they are for White himself, so that he doesn't walk away with incorrect assumptions. He was a tireless sentinel of the world, and those elements of charm that he adored so much continue to charm within these pages.

A Decent Person!

A decent person is truly a gem in this world.

They possess qualities that make them stand out and earn the respect and admiration of those around them.

A decent person is kind-hearted, always ready to offer a helping hand to those in need.

They are honest and trustworthy, and their word is their bond.

They treat others with respect and dignity, regardless of their background or social status.

A decent person is also responsible and reliable, fulfilling their obligations and commitments without fail.

They have a strong sense of morality and ethics, and they strive to do the right thing even when it is difficult.

In short, a decent person is someone who makes a positive impact on the world and makes it a better place to live in.

We should all strive to be decent people and spread kindness, honesty, and respect wherever we go.

It took me an incredibly long time to complete this book,

for I simply didn't want it to come to an end. After obtaining several more books of this charming man's writing,

I finally summoned the courage to read the final essay. E.B. White is undoubtedly one of my favorite writers.

In fact, I'm still softly humming 'Getting to Know You', even though, unfortunately, he has not been with us since 1985.

E.B. White was a writer for The New Yorker magazine from its inception in 1925;

however, even before that, he was quite the adventurer.

One of the most delightful and humorous pieces I've ever read is 'The Years of Wonder',

which details an adventure that few have had when he was young and taking risks of the kind that only youth typically dares to take.

There are stories of his youth, his life as a writer, as a writer for the magazine,

stories from the city, and about life on his farm in New Hampshire.

Since these are essays, it's a book that's easy to set aside and then pick up again later.

What a wonderful human being he was, and his spirit is surely alive and well in his work.

I don't feel as if I've merely read a book but rather made a new friend!

Well, I truly wish I could have delved into the entire body of work. Sadly, I was only able to peruse Once More to the Lake. I must say that it was an absolute delight, beautifully crafted and written with great finesse.

Aside from E.B. White's renowned Elements of Style, this is actually the very first piece of his prose (or to be more precise, creative nonfiction) that I have had the pleasure of reading. (In fact, it's rather unfortunate that I didn't get to read Charlotte's Web during my childhood.)

Need I say more about his writing prowess? It was nothing short of flawless and practically perfect. This man knew his craft inside out. His writing style is precisely the kind that I have always aspired to possess - vividly descriptive yet not to the extent of being overly redundant. The imagery and symbolism that permeated throughout the essay were incredibly powerful and deeply poignant. The readers could truly sense the intensity of the internal conflict and dilemmas that the narrator (or perhaps himself) was grappling with.

One thing is for certain: I ardently wish that I could write with the same level of skill and artistry as he did.

We had been experiencing an unseasonable stretch of weather. The days were hot and close, with a thick fog settling in every night. It would lift for a few hours in the middle of the day, only to creep back again as darkness fell. First, it would drift in over the trees on the point, and then suddenly blow across the fields, blotting out the entire world and taking hold of houses, people, and animals. Everyone was constantly hoping for a change, but unfortunately, that break never materialized. The next day was yet another scorching hot one.

I hung up the phone. My throat felt parched, so I made my way to the cupboard and retrieved a bottle of whiskey. The phrase "deep hemorrhagic infarcts" began to lodge itself firmly in my mind. I had always assumed that there couldn't be anything seriously amiss with a pig during the months it was being prepared for slaughter. My confidence in the fundamental health and durability of pigs was both strong and profound, especially when it came to the pigs that belonged to me and were an integral part of my proud plan. However, the awakening had been abrupt and violent, and I was all the more troubled by it because I knew that what was true for my pig could potentially be true for the rest of my seemingly orderly world. I attempted to push this unpleasant thought aside, but it kept recurring. I took a small sip of the whiskey, and then, although I desired to go down to the yard and search for fresh signs, I was too scared to do so. I was certain that I had erysipelas.

I stood there, lost in thought, wondering what the future held for me and my pig. The hot and humid weather seemed to exacerbate my anxiety, and I couldn't help but feel a sense of foreboding. As I took another drink of the whiskey, I tried to convince myself that everything would be okay, but deep down, I knew that this might be wishful thinking.

Like the majority of American liberal artists, I know E.B. White principally from his editorial work. The Elements of Style was the principal explicit force behind my own understanding of the sentence and the essay, and I assumed its writer would possess that bright cogency that tickles the alert reader into giggles.

I also knew E.B. White as the author of books for children. And though it has been nearly two decades since I read Charlotte's Web, I remember vividly the story and the prematurely deep emotion it aroused.

Lastly, I knew E.B. White was the resident essayist for years at the New Yorker. I had read a piece or two of his during college and graduate writing programs, and found them—as I expected from the editor of the Elements of Style—to be refined and distinct, even if I believed they were too patricianly contented for my taste.

Now, I've worked my way through this collection concurrently with David Foster Wallace's A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again, and I couldn't think of a more illuminating contrast. Both artists reside within a tiny honored circle of American essayists. Both artists, per William Strunk's instruction, labor to omit needless words. Both artists ask that every word tell. But Wallace crams his sentences full of meaning, each written as though it would be his last and only, while E.B. White seems to let some sentences breathe the open air. What's more, Wallace often mercilessly whips his essay, even his day-to-day accounts, in pursuit of his philosophical rabbit. He is as methodical as the baseline tennis player of his teenage years, piling precise sentence on sentence, calculating and increasing the advantageous angles, till triumph is inevitable. E.B. White seems, by contrast, to be at times an amnesiac playing billiards with one hand: scattering the balls, then studying them, judging their position anew, and firing away.

In his missives from Maine, for instance, White will digress into accounts on the weather, reports on egg production, measurements of snowfall and the tides, before meandering to his point. But when White finally finds the balls aligned to his liking, he strikes with such a devastatingly beautiful, caroming shot! Consider his essay, \\"Death of a Pig,\\" filled with mournful puns (such a thing is possible!), portraits of gruff veterinarians and sympathetic neighbors, explanations of his farm's terrain. It seems a sweet, orchard-smelling essay, but comes around to a gorgeous and devastating final sentence comparing the curious spirit of his daschund Fred and the haunting regret he, as a failed caretaker, feels at his pig's inescapable death: \\"The grave in the woods is unmarked, but Fred can direct the mourner to it unerringly and with immense good will, and I know he and I shall often revisit it, singly and together, in seasons of reflection and despair, on flagless memorial days of our own choosing.\\" Even pulled from context, the lovely pace and light, precise kiss of this sentence takes away your breath. Within the slow, sad, wandering story, it is devastatingly melancholic.

Or, consider the lively and humorous essay on the 1939 World's Fair in Queens, NY, which pokes gentle fun at the antiseptic world of tomorrow. And at the end, the essay arrives the peculiar image of a couple of bare-breasted \\"Amazon\\" girls sitting in a robot automaton's giant rubber palm: a silly image, ripe for the simple, sly irony and gentle humanism that characterizes an essay filled with tots making long distance phone calls, cracks about the rainy weather. But White opts, in the last sentence, to just put aside the nibbles of soft irony and just take one voracious bite. And so, from nothing: \\"Here was the Fair, all fairs, in pantomime; and here the strange mixed dream that made the Fair: the heroic man, bloodless and perfect and enormous, created in his own image, and in his hand (rubber, aseptic) the literal desire, the warm and living breast.\\"

And just one more, to really amaze you, the final two paragraphs of an essay ostensibly about Ford's discontinuation of the Model T line, the car of White's (and, in a sense, modern America's) youth:

\\"Springtime in the heyday of the Model T was a delirious season. Owning a car was still a major excitement, roads were 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....

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!\\"

Well, what about that!

This article delves into a wide range of captivating topics. It explores life with animals on a small farm, offering a glimpse into the unique experiences and challenges that come with it. The politics and media during the 1950s Cold War and the 1970s oil shortage are also examined, shedding light on the complex dynamics of those eras. Additionally, it discusses modernization and development in small towns, highlighting the changes and progress that have occurred. The issue of pollution and nuclear radiation in the 1950s is another area of focus, emphasizing the potential consequences of these phenomena. The article also touches on regional differences while traveling and vacationing in neighborhoods across the country, as well as the experience of driving Ford's Model T. The decline of railroads in the 1950s is analyzed, and modern comedy writing and humorists are considered.

However, some of the writing can be perceived as elitist. In certain aspects, the author comes across as a snob, while in others, he is more down-to-earth. There is also a particular aspect that I don't like, which is how he talks about his wife. He seems to look down at her, which can be off-putting.

Notably, his famous NYC essay "Here Is New York" is included in this collection, along with "Afternoon of an American Boy".

Quotes:

"I passed through the Strait and into the Arctic many years ago, searching for a longer route to where I didn't want to be.... I was rather young to be so far north, but there is a period near the beginning of every man's life when he has little to cling to except his unmanageable dream, little to support him except good health, and nowhere to go but all over the place."

--from "The Years of Wonder"

I would like to commence by stating that I am not usually the kind of person who takes pleasure in reading short story or essay collections.
Trying to express just how remarkable EB White's writing is appears to be an inherent disservice and borderline disrespectful. Nevertheless, I shall do my utmost.
This is, without a doubt, the greatest collection of writing to be assembled within a volume. I will firmly stand by that assertion.
The manner in which EB White can skillfully utilize every single word to its utmost importance and relevance is a rarity in contemporary writing.
I apologize in advance to all of my friends and family. This book will be bestowed as gifts this Christmas.

I knew this would be a five-star book after reading the very first line.

Often, I find that a significant number of non-fiction books are penned by individuals whom White calls (himself included), "sustained by the childish belief that everything he or she thinks is of general interest." Remarkably, White admits this elephant in the room right away, allowing you to proceed with reading the remainder of his works.

It is truly astonishing how, despite having been written over half a century ago, many of the ideas he discusses remain relevant today. He delves into the impacts of progress, technology, and politics. In fact, if you were to simply change the date on a few of his essays, you might easily assume they were written recently.

There are a couple of places later in the collection where I did get a bit bored. However, even with that minor drawback, the first two-thirds of the book is so outstanding that there was no doubt in my mind about how to rate it.

Another great aspect of reading this book is that the essays are concise, enabling you to read it in small increments without the worry of losing the thread of the story. Without a doubt, it is the best book I have read in three years.

As a devoted fan of E.B. White, I must admit that I was rather let down by this collection, which I failed to complete. I was intrigued to discover what the author of the renowned "Charlotte's Web" would have to offer to adults. However, in my view, it was not a great deal. I firmly believe that "Charlotte's Web" is among the finest books written in the English language. It is so outstanding that I included it on my list of favorite books at AdHudler.com, ranking it alongside some of the most significant literary masterpieces. "Charlotte's Web" is a work of art with not a single superfluous word. It is lean, beautifully written, straightforward, and rich in meaning. In White's collection of essays, I sense that he truly lacked a clear idea of what he wished to convey. Consequently, he simply began writing, and perhaps due to his status as E.B. White, the editors permitted him to do so. I highly recommend going back and rereading "Charlotte's Web" slowly, and marvelling at the power of his concise and impactful sentences.