The Door, by E. B. WHITE

E. B. WHITE

E(lwyn) B(rooks) White (1899-1985)

Leading American essayist and literary stylist of his time. White was known for his crisp, graceful, relaxed style. "No one can write a sentence like White," James Thurber once stated. White's stories ranged from satire to children's fiction. While he often wrote from the perspective of slightly ironic onlooker, he also was a sensitive spokesman for the freedom of the individual. Among his most enduring essays is 'Once More to the Lake.'

"I am the holder of a quit-claim deed recorded in Book 682, Page 501, in the country where I live. I hold Fire Insurance Policy Number 424747, continuing until the 23 day of October in the year nineteen hundred forty-five, at noon, and it is important that the written portions of all policies covering the same property read exactly alike." (from 'About Myself', 1945)

Elwyn Brooks White was born in Mount Vernon, New York, as the son of Samuel White, a prosperous piano manufacturer, and Jessie (Hart) White; she was forty-one and Samuel was forty-five. Elwyn was the youngest child of a large family, where parents really loved children. On Elwyn's twelfth birthday his father wrote to him: "You are the object of the affectionate solicitude of your mother and father. Then you have been born a Christian. When you reflect that the great majority of men are born in heathen lands in dense ignorance and superstition it is something to be thankful for that you have the light that giveth life."

After graduating from Cornell University in 1921, White worked in some miscellaneous jobs, such as reporter for United Press, American Legion News Service, and the Seattle Times. In 1924 he returned to New York. He worked as a production assistant and advertising copywriter before joining the newly established New Yorker. There he met his wife, Katherine Sergeant Angell, who was the magazine's literary editor. They married in 1929. For 11 years he wrote for the magazine editorial essays and contributed verse and other pieces. Among the other writers with whom White and his wife become friends were Dorothy Parker, Robert Benchley, James Thurber, and Stephen Leacock.

"Walden is the only book I own, although there are some others unclaimed on my shelves. Every man, I think, reads one book in his life, and this one is mine. It is not the best book I ever encountered, perhaps, but it is for me the handiest, and I keep it about me in much the same way one carries a handkerchief - for relief in moments of defluxion or despair." (White in The New Yorker, May 23, 1953)

From 1929 White worked for The New Yorker's weekly magazine, remaining in its staff for the rest of his career. White's favorite subjects were the complexities of modern society, failures of technological progress, the pleasures of urban and rural life, war, and internationalism. He was skeptical about organized religion, and advocated a respect for nature and simple living. White's early collections of poetry, THE LADY IS COLD (1929) and THE FOX OF PEAPACK AND OTHER POEMS (1928), reflected his interest in "the small things of the day" and "the trivial matters of the heart." From 1938 to 1943 he wrote and edited a column called 'One Man's Meat' for Harper's magazine. These collected essays, featuring White's rural experiences, were published in 1942. Critics hailed this as White's best book to date, but he first gained wide fame with the publication of IS SEX NECESSARY?, which he wrote with his friend and colleague James Thurber. In 1941 he published with Katherine Sergeant Angell A SUBTREASURY OF AMERICAN HUMOUR. ONE MAN'S MEAT, which appeared in 1942, and was reissued two years later in expanded form, had a nonstop run of 55 years in print. It was compiled of White's columns for Harper's with three essays from The New Yorker.

In 1939 White moved to a farm in North Brooklin, Maine, and continued his writing career without the responsibilities of a regular job. He never stopped loving New York, calling it "a riddle in steel and stone," but he also prophetically saw the vulnerability of the city: "A single flight of planes no bigger than a wedge of geese can quickly end this island fantasy, burn the towers, crumble the bridges, turn the underground passages into lethal chambers, cremate millions... Of all targets New York has a certain clear priority. In the mind of whatever perverted dreamer might loose the lightning, New York must hold a steady, irresistible charm." (from Here is New York, 1949) The barn near White's Maine home inspired many of the characters in his stories for children.

After World War II White became an enthusiastic editorial supporter of internationalism and the United Nations, publishing an collection of essays under the title THE WILD FLAG (1946). In the essay 'The Ring of Time' from 1956 he dealt with segregation. He tells how he explained to his cook, who was from Finland, that in the American Southland she should sit in one of the front seats - the seats in back are reserved for colored people. "Oh, I know - isn't it silly," was her reply and White concludes: "The Supreme Court said nothing about silliness, but I suspect it may play more of a role than one might suppose. People are, if anything, more touchy about being thought silly than they are about being thought unjust... Probably the first slave ship, with Negroes lying in chains on its decks, seemed commonsensical to the owners who operated it and to the planters who patronized it. But such a vessel would not be in the realm of common sense today. The only sense that is common, in the long run, is the sense of change..."

In 1959 White published a standard style manual for writing, THE ELEMENTS OF STYLE, which became a mainstay of high-school and college English courses in the U.S. The work was based on Prof. William Strunk Jr.'s privately printed book, which had gone out of print. White revised the original adding a chapter and expanding some of the other content. Later Strunk & White's The Elements of Style was revised several times. The famous manual, with its timeless observations, is still considered an exemplar of the principles it explains. "A sentence should contain no unnecessary words, a paragraph no unnecessary sentences, for the same reason that a drawing should have no unnecessary lines and a machine no unnecessary part." White's essay ´'Will Strunk', published in The New Yorker, now serves as the intro to the book.

Between writing columns, White also published children's books. STUART LITTLE (1945) depicted an independent and adventurous child, the size of mouse, who is born into a human family. After various adventures Stuart goes in search of a bird whose life he had previously saved. CHARLOTTE'S WEB (1952) was about the friendship between a young pig, Wilbur, and a spider, Charlotte A. Cavitica. She craftily saves him from the butcher's knife through the message, ''Some Pig'', she weaves in her web - only to die alone. In THE TRUMPET OF THE SWAN (1970) a mute swan learns to trumpet and becomes a celebrity. In these works White explored such themes as loyalty, tolerance, and rural living. They have become for many young readers unforgettable guides into the world of fiction.

E.B. White died of Alzheimer disease on October 1, 1985 in North Brooklin, Maine. He was awarded the gold medal for essays and criticism of the National Institute of Arts and Letters, and a Pulitzer Prize special citation in 1978. He held honorary degrees from seven American colleges and universities and was a member of the American Academy.

The Door

by E. B. WHITE

Everything (he kept saying) is something it isn't. And everybody is always somewhere else. Maybe it was the city, being in the city, that made him feel how queer everything was and that it was something else. Maybe (he kept thinking) it was the names of the things. The names were tex and frequently koid. Or they were flex and oid or they were duroid (sand) or flexsan (duro), but everything was glass (but not quite glass) and the thing that you touched (the surface, washable, crease-resistant) was rubber, only it wasn't quite rubber and you didn't quite touch it but almost. The wall, which was glass but turned out on being approached not to be a wall, it was something else, it was an opening or doorway--and the doorway (through which he saw himself approaching) turned out to be something else, it was a wall. And what he had eaten not having agreed with him.

He was in a washable house, but he wasn't sure. Now about those rats, he kept saying to himself. He meant the rats that the Professor had driven crazy by forcing them to deal with problems which were beyond the scope of rats, the insoluble problems. He meant the rats that had been trained to jump at the square card with the circle in the middle, and the card (because it was something it wasn't) would give way and let the rat into a place where the food was, but then one day it would be a trick played on the rat, and the card would be changed, and the rat would jump but the card wouldn't give way, and it was an impossible situation (for a rat) and the rat would go insane and into its eyes would come the unspeakably bright imploring look of the frustrated, and after the convulsions were over and the frantic racing around, then the passive stage would set in and the willingness to let anything be done to it, even if it was something else.

He didn't know which door (or wall) or opening in the house to jump at, to get through, because one was an opening that wasn't a door (it was a void, or kid) and the other was a wall that wasn't an opening, it was a sanitary cupboard of the same color. He caught a glimpse of his eyes staring into his eyes, in the and in them was the expression he had seen in the picture of the rats--weary after convulsions and the frantic racing around, when they were willing and did not mind having

anything done to them. More and more (he kept saying) I am confronted by a problem which is incapable of solution (for this time even if he chose the right door, there would be no food behind it) and that is what madness is, and things seeming different from what they are. He heard, in the house where he was, in the city to which he had gone (as toward a door which might, or might not, give way), a noise--not a loud noise but more of a low prefabricated humming. It came from a place in the base of the wall (or stat) where the flue carrying the filterable air was, and not far from the Minipiano, which was made of the same material nailbrushes are made of, and which was under the stairs. "This, too, has been tested," she said, pointing, but not at it, "and found viable." It wasn't a loud noise, he kept thinking, sorry that he had seen his eyes, even though it was through his own eyes that he had seen them.

First will come the convulsions (he said), then the exhaustion, then the willingness to let anything be done. '`And you better believe it will be."

All his life he had been confronted by situations which were incapable of being solved, and there was a deliberateness behind all this, behind this changing of the card (or door), because they would always wait until you had learned to jump at the certain card (or door)--the one with the circle--and then they would change it on you. There have been so many doors changed on me, he said, in the last twenty years, but it is now becoming clear that it is an impossible situation, and the question is whether to jump again, even though they ruffle you in the rump with a blast of air--to make you jump. He wished he wasn't standing by the Minipiano. First they would teach you the prayers and the Psalms, and that would be the right door(the one with the circle) and the long sweet words with the holy sound, and that would be the one to jump at to get where the food was. Then one day you jumped and it didn't give way, so that all you got was the bump on the nose, and the first bewilderment, the first young bewilderment.

I don't know whether to tell her about the door they substituted or not, he said, the one with the equation on it and the picture of the amoeba reproducing itself by division. Or the one with the photostatic copy of the check for thirty-two dollars and fifty cents. But the jumping was so long ago, although the bump is . . . how those old wounds hurt! Being crazy this way wouldn't be so bad if only, if only. If only when you put your foot forward to take a step, the ground wouldn't come up to meet your foot the way it does. And the same way in the street (only I may never get back to the street unless I jump at the right door), the curb coming up to meet your foot, anticipating ever so delicately the weight of the body, which is somewhere else. "We could take your name," she said, "and send it to you." And it wouldn't be so bad if only you could read a sentence all the way through without jumping (your eye) to something else on the same page; and then (he kept thinking) there was that man out in Jersey, the one who started to chop his trees down, one by one, the man who began talking about how he would take his house to pieces, brick by brick, because he faced a problem incapable of solution, probably, so he began to hack at the trees in the yard, began to pluck with trembling fingers at the bricks in the house. Even if a house is not washable, it is worth taking down. It is not till later that the exhaustion sets in.

But it is inevitable that they will keep changing the doors on you, he said, because that is what they are for; and the thing is to get used to it and not let it unsettle the mind. But that would mean not jumping, and you can't. Nobody can not jump. There will be no not-jumping. Among rats, perhaps, but among people never. Everybody has to keep jumping at a door (the one with the circle on it) because that is the way everybody is, especially some people. You wouldn't want me, standing here, to tell you, would you, about my friend the poet (deceased) who said, "My heart has followed all my days something I cannot name"? (It had the circle on it.) And like many poets, although few so beloved, he is gone. It killed him, the jumping. First, of course, there were the preliminary bouts, the convulsions, and the calm and the willingness.

I remember the door with the picture of the girl on it (only it was spring), her arms outstretched in loveliness, her dress (it was the one with the circle on it) uncaught, beginning the slow, clear, blinding cascade-and I guess we would all like to try that door again, for it seemed like the way and for a while it was the way, the door would open and you would go through winged and exalted (like any rat) and the food would be there, the way the Professor had it arranged, everything O.K., and you had chosen the right door for the world was young. The time they changed that door on me, my nose bled for a hundred hours--how do you like that, Madam? Or would you prefer to show me further through this so strange house, or you could take my name and send it to me, for although my heart has followed all my days something I cannot name, I am tired of the jumping and I do not know which way to go, Madam, and I am not even sure that I am not tired beyond the endurance of man (rat, if you will) and have taken leave of sanity. What are you following these days, old friend, after your recovery from the last bump? What is the name, or is it something you cannot name? The rats have a name for it by this time, perhaps, but I don't know what they call it. I call it and it comes in sheets, something like insulating board, unattainable and ugli-proof.

And there was the man out in Jersey, because I keep thinking about his terrible necessity and the passion and trouble he had gone to all those years in the indescribable abundance of a householder's detail, building the estate and the planting of the trees and in spring the lawn-dressing and in fall the bulbs for the spring burgeoning, and the watering of the

grass on the long light evenings in summer and the gravel for the driveway (all had to be thought out, planned) and the decorative borders, probably, the perennials and the bug spray, and the building of the house from plans of the architect, first the sills, then the studs, then the full corn in the ear, the floors laid on the floor timbers, smoothed, and then the carpets upon the smooth floors and the curtains and the rods therefor. And then, almost without warning, he would be jumping at the same old door and it wouldn't give: they had changed it on him, making life no longer supportable under the elms in the elm shade, under the maples in the maple shade.

"Here you have the maximum of openness in a small room."

It was impossible to say (maybe it was the city) what made him feel the way he did, and I am not the only one either, he kept thinking--ask any doctor if I am. The doctors, they know how many there are, they even know where the trouble is only they don't like to tell you about the prefrontal lobe because that means making a hole in your skull and removing the work of centuries. It took so long coming, this lobe, so many, many years. (Is it something you read in the paper, perhaps?) And now, the strain being so great, the door having been changed by the Professor once too often . . . but it only means a whiff of ether, a few deft strokes, and the higher animal becomes a little easier in his mind and more like the lower one. From now on, you see, that's the way it will be, the ones with the small prefrontal lobes will win because the other ones are hurt too much by this incessant bumping. They can stand just so much, em, Doctor? (And what is that, pray, that you have in your hand?) Still, you never can tell, em, Madam?

He crossed (carefully) the room, the thick carpet under him softly, and went toward the door carefully, which was glass and he could see himself in it, and which, at his approach, opened to allow him to pass through; and beyond he half expected to find one of the old doors that he had known, perhaps the one with the circle, the one with the girl her arms outstretched in loveliness and beauty before him. But he saw instead a moving stairway, and descended in light (he kept thinking) to the street below and to the other people. As he stepped off, the ground came up slightly, to meet his foot.