Ribbons (
bronze_ribbons) wrote2007-05-01 05:20 pm
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"It doesn't satisfy me the way it is."
(Subject line = E.B. White on the first draft of Charlotte's Web. From the same letter: "I have put it away for a while to ripen (let the body heat go out of it).")
Also quoted from White, in Lanes: "...the man-on-paper is always a more admirable character than his creator, who is a miserable creature of nose colds, minor compromises, and sudden flights into nobility."
And one more: "The rewards of such endeavor are not that I have acquired an audience as you suggest (fame of any kind being a Pyrrhic victory), but that sometimes in writing for myself - which is the only subject anyone knows intimately - I have occasionally had the exquisite thrill of putting my finger on a little capsule of truth, and heard it give the faint squeak of mortality under my pressure, an antic sound."
E.B. White's odd failure to produce other major works [besides Stuart Little, which took him from 1933 to 1949 to create, and Charlotte's Web] may, in part, be explained by a confession to one of his correspondents: "Unlike you, I have no faith, only a suitcaseful of beliefs that sustain me. Life's meaning has always eluded me, and I guess it always will. But I love it just the same."- Selma G. Lanes, "E.B. White and Read All Over," a chapter in Through the Looking Glass: Further Adventures and Misadventures in the Realm of Children's Literature (2004)
Also quoted from White, in Lanes: "...the man-on-paper is always a more admirable character than his creator, who is a miserable creature of nose colds, minor compromises, and sudden flights into nobility."
And one more: "The rewards of such endeavor are not that I have acquired an audience as you suggest (fame of any kind being a Pyrrhic victory), but that sometimes in writing for myself - which is the only subject anyone knows intimately - I have occasionally had the exquisite thrill of putting my finger on a little capsule of truth, and heard it give the faint squeak of mortality under my pressure, an antic sound."
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But Lanes is rather judgmental here as to what counts as "major works," n'est-ce pas? If I remember correctly from a paper I wrote a hundred years ago, White was a very prolific and renowned columnist. Why shouldn't that corpus count as a magnum opus, even if he didn't write any other children's books? Why should novels be the arbiter of success? I doubt he would have considered that a failure, unless he sat around lamenting his inability to write anything more than witty, concise observations.
Not to be confused with a magnum corpus...
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[There ought to be a prize for you if you managed to wade through that sentence, btw, but you'll have to take a rain check on that. Time for me to go home and crash on the sofa for a couple hours...]
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And Andy White is definitely the man. I love reading about his fellow New Yorker writers and artists, but I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have lasted even fifteen minutes around most of them, given my non-existent threshold for unnecessary drama and competitive bitchiness. (Same deal with the Bloomsbury crowd, for that matter - fun to read about, but when I see that type in real life I run for the hills.) Telecommuting from Maine, on the other hand...
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Interesting about Tony Kushner. If I were going to pick a name to go with "Maurice Sendak," I don't think I'd have picked Kushner.