About 20 years ago, out of school and footloose and broke, I decided I would pay a visit to my favorite writer, the essayist E.B. White, then residing, as he had for 50 years, on a saltwater farm along the coast of Maine. I was sure White would welcome the visit--after all, I reasoned, what ailing octogenarian writer doesn't long for the company of an unemployed 20-year-old houseguest with no visible means of support and no reason to leave?--but just as a courtesy, I decided to send him notice of my arrival. Already I had in hand a friendly letter from...
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