Letter from E.B. White to a man who wrote to him in despair over the bleakness of the human race. That's all I've got today, friends.

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Letter from E.B. White to a man who wrote to him in despair over the bleakness of the human race. That's all I've got today, friends.

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âThey have been my friends. That in itself is a tremendous thing." â E. B. White
April 1: Pink
The Poeming-BANS OFF OUR POETRY
White, E. B. Charlotte's Web. New York and Evanston: Harper and Row, Publishers, 1952. Print. Pg. 4.
 In old age, when he was suffering from Alzheimerâs, E.B. White liked to have his own essays and books read to him. Sometimes, White would ask who wrote what he was listening to, and his chief reader, his son Joe, would tell him, âYou did, Dad.â Sims says White âwould think about this odd fact for a moment and sometimes murmur, âNot bad.âÂ
Maureen Corrigan reviews a new book about the life of E.B. White and the origins of Charlotteâs Web. (via nprfreshair)
The zeppelin era peaked with Hindenburg. A mechanic checks an engine during a 1936 flight.
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âYour creative endeavors can never be thoroughly mapped out ahead of time. You have to allow for the suddenly altered landscape, the change in plan, the accidental sparkâ and you have to see it as a stroke of luck rather than a disturbance of your perfect scheme. Habitually creative people are, in E. B. Whiteâs phrase, âprepared to be lucky.ââ
â Twyla Tharp, The Creative Habit: Learn it and Use it for Life
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Art by Greg Stones
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âI arise in the morning torn between a desire to improve (or save) the world and a desire to enjoy (or savor) the world. This makes it hard to plan the day.â
â E.B. WhiteÂ
We received a letter from the Writersâ War Board the other day asking for a statement on âThe Meaning of Democracy.â It presumably is our duty to comply with such a request, and it is certainly our pleasure. Surely the Board knows what democracy is. It is the line that forms on the right. It is the donât in donât shove. It is the hole in the stuffed shirt through which the sawdust slowly trickles; it is the dent in the high hat. Democracy is the recurrent suspicion that more than half of the people are right more than half of the time. It is the feeling of privacy in the voting booths, the feeling of communion in the libraries, the feeling of vitality everywhere. Democracy is a letter to the editor. Democracy is the score at the beginning of the ninth. It is an idea which hasnât been disproved yet, a song the words of which have not gone bad. Itâs the mustard on the hot dog and the cream in the rationed coffee. Democracy is a request from a War Board, in the middle of a morning in the middle of a war, wanting to know what democracy is.
âE B White, Reply to the Writers' War Board, The New Yorker, July 3, 1943
[Thanks Robert Scott Horton]
April 1: PINK White, E. B. Charlotte's Web. New York and Evanston: Harper and Row, Publishers, 1952. Print. Pg. 4.