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  <id>10815</id>
  <title><![CDATA[Writings from The New Yorker 1927-1976]]></title>
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  <description><![CDATA[Three years after E. B. White's death, Rebecca Dale discovered a cache of his <em>New Yorker</em> writings that had yet to be collected. There's certainly nothing mediocre about these 161 pieces, which range from nature vignettes (a New York City sparrow extols urban life) to musings on language, business, and liberty. White's 1953 fantasia of visiting Thoreau's Walden Pond with Joseph McCarthy is peerless. &quot;Wait a minute!&quot; the senator realizes. &quot;This man was Communist-inspired. That accounts for his sour attitude about housing--&quot; The satire is strong, but so is the celebration. A short piece on a skating fest ends: &quot;Ice is an odd substance to have at last freed the body in its persistent attempt to catch up with the spirit.&quot; And speaking of which, in &quot;Fred On Space&quot; White asks his dead dachshund how he feels about the first dog launched by the Russians. Fred is far from impressed: &quot;The excuse you men give is that you must continually add to the store of human knowledge--a store that already resembles a supermarket and is beginning to hypnotize the customers.&quot;]]></description>
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  <original_publication_year type="integer">1990</original_publication_year>
  <original_title>Writings from The New Yorker 1927-1976</original_title>
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    <id>988142</id>
        <name><![CDATA[E.B. White]]></name>
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      <review>
  <id>78573387</id>
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    <id>1436799</id>
    <name><![CDATA[Dinah]]></name>
    <location><![CDATA[New York, NY]]></location>
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    <![CDATA[Writings from The New Yorker 1927-1976]]>
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  <average_rating>4.26</average_rating>
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  <description>
    <![CDATA[Three years after E. B. White's death, Rebecca Dale discovered a cache of his <em>New Yorker</em> writings that had yet to be collected. There's certainly nothing mediocre about these 161 pieces, which range from nature vignettes (a New York City sparrow extols urban life) to musings on language, business, and liberty. White's 1953 fantasia of visiting Thoreau's Walden Pond with Joseph McCarthy is peerless. &quot;Wait a minute!&quot; the senator realizes. &quot;This man was Communist-inspired. That accounts for his sour attitude about housing--&quot; The satire is strong, but so is the celebration. A short piece on a skating fest ends: &quot;Ice is an odd substance to have at last freed the body in its persistent attempt to catch up with the spirit.&quot; And speaking of which, in &quot;Fred On Space&quot; White asks his dead dachshund how he feels about the first dog launched by the Russians. Fred is far from impressed: &quot;The excuse you men give is that you must continually add to the store of human knowledge--a store that already resembles a supermarket and is beginning to hypnotize the customers.&quot;]]>
  </description>
  <published>1990</published>
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    <rating>5</rating>
  <votes>0</votes>
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  <recommended_for><![CDATA[]]></recommended_for>
  <recommended_by><![CDATA[]]></recommended_by>
  <read_at>Fri Nov 20 00:00:00 -0800 2009</read_at>
  <date_added>Sat Nov 21 16:36:57 -0800 2009</date_added>
  <date_updated>Sat Nov 21 16:37:50 -0800 2009</date_updated>
  <read_count></read_count>
    <body><![CDATA[The cover of this book refers to E.B. White as &quot;inimitable,&quot; which is a word just vague enough in meaning to the modern ear to suggest the author is venerable and quaint. I couldn't have chosen a better term. While a fair number of these short pieces are pointed and political, all have the...<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/78573387">more...</a>]]></body>
    
  <url><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/78573387]]></url>
  <link><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/78573387]]></link>
</review>
      <review>
  <id>79788247</id>
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    <name><![CDATA[Sweetman]]></name>
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  <title>
    <![CDATA[Writings from The New Yorker 1927-1976]]>
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  <average_rating>4.26</average_rating>
  <ratings_count>94</ratings_count>
  <description>
    <![CDATA[Three years after E. B. White's death, Rebecca Dale discovered a cache of his <em>New Yorker</em> writings that had yet to be collected. There's certainly nothing mediocre about these 161 pieces, which range from nature vignettes (a New York City sparrow extols urban life) to musings on language, business, and liberty. White's 1953 fantasia of visiting Thoreau's Walden Pond with Joseph McCarthy is peerless. &quot;Wait a minute!&quot; the senator realizes. &quot;This man was Communist-inspired. That accounts for his sour attitude about housing--&quot; The satire is strong, but so is the celebration. A short piece on a skating fest ends: &quot;Ice is an odd substance to have at last freed the body in its persistent attempt to catch up with the spirit.&quot; And speaking of which, in &quot;Fred On Space&quot; White asks his dead dachshund how he feels about the first dog launched by the Russians. Fred is far from impressed: &quot;The excuse you men give is that you must continually add to the store of human knowledge--a store that already resembles a supermarket and is beginning to hypnotize the customers.&quot;]]>
  </description>
  <published>1990</published>
</book>

    <rating>5</rating>
  <votes>0</votes>
  <spoiler_flag>false</spoiler_flag>
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            <shelf name="classics" />
        <shelf name="influential" />
      </shelves>
  <recommended_for><![CDATA[everyone]]></recommended_for>
  <recommended_by><![CDATA[found the compilation finally!]]></recommended_by>
  <read_at>Tue Jan 01 00:00:00 -0800 1974</read_at>
  <date_added>Thu Dec 03 13:43:08 -0800 2009</date_added>
  <date_updated>Thu Dec 03 13:52:03 -0800 2009</date_updated>
  <read_count>numerous readings starting in my youth</read_count>
    <body><![CDATA[I can not get enough of E.B White lately. His writing is simple, clear and so funny. He is my flavor-of-the-month right now and he's moving on up as one of my all time favorites. Here's an example:<br/><br/>'<strong> PROHIBITED</strong><br/>                                         1/25/36<br/>The plant-patent bu...<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/79788247">more...</a>]]></body>
    
  <url><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/79788247]]></url>
  <link><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/79788247]]></link>
</review>
      <review>
  <id>67521418</id>
    <user>
    <id>977989</id>
    <name><![CDATA[Dave]]></name>
    <location><![CDATA[Berea, OH]]></location>
    <link><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/user/show/977989-dave]]></link>
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  <title>
    <![CDATA[Writings from The New Yorker 1927-1976]]>
  </title>
  <image_url>http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1166334134m/10815.jpg</image_url>
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  <link>http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/10815.Writings_from_The_New_Yorker_1927_1976</link>
  <average_rating>4.26</average_rating>
  <ratings_count>94</ratings_count>
  <description>
    <![CDATA[Three years after E. B. White's death, Rebecca Dale discovered a cache of his <em>New Yorker</em> writings that had yet to be collected. There's certainly nothing mediocre about these 161 pieces, which range from nature vignettes (a New York City sparrow extols urban life) to musings on language, business, and liberty. White's 1953 fantasia of visiting Thoreau's Walden Pond with Joseph McCarthy is peerless. &quot;Wait a minute!&quot; the senator realizes. &quot;This man was Communist-inspired. That accounts for his sour attitude about housing--&quot; The satire is strong, but so is the celebration. A short piece on a skating fest ends: &quot;Ice is an odd substance to have at last freed the body in its persistent attempt to catch up with the spirit.&quot; And speaking of which, in &quot;Fred On Space&quot; White asks his dead dachshund how he feels about the first dog launched by the Russians. Fred is far from impressed: &quot;The excuse you men give is that you must continually add to the store of human knowledge--a store that already resembles a supermarket and is beginning to hypnotize the customers.&quot;]]>
  </description>
  <published>1990</published>
</book>

    <rating>4</rating>
  <votes>0</votes>
  <spoiler_flag>false</spoiler_flag>
  <shelves>
        <shelf name="read" />
          </shelves>
  <recommended_for><![CDATA[]]></recommended_for>
  <recommended_by><![CDATA[]]></recommended_by>
  <read_at>Mon Aug 24 00:00:00 -0700 2009</read_at>
  <date_added>Sat Aug 15 13:41:31 -0700 2009</date_added>
  <date_updated>Mon Aug 24 20:59:10 -0700 2009</date_updated>
  <read_count></read_count>
    <body><![CDATA[It's all good--too much all at once.  The essays--essayettes, really--on nature, New York, and Maine tend to be the best.  White on Thoreau is best of all:  <br/><br/>&quot;He got a reputation for being a naturalist, and he was not much of a naturalist.  He got a reputation for being a hermit, and...<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/67521418">more...</a>]]></body>
    
  <url><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/67521418]]></url>
  <link><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/67521418]]></link>
</review>
      <review>
  <id>37175541</id>
    <user>
    <id>1361000</id>
    <name><![CDATA[Tony]]></name>
    <location><![CDATA[Chadds Ford, PA]]></location>
    <link><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/user/show/1361000-tony]]></link>
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  <isbn>0060921234</isbn>
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  <title>
    <![CDATA[Writings from The New Yorker 1927-1976]]>
  </title>
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  <link>http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/10815.Writings_from_The_New_Yorker_1927_1976</link>
  <average_rating>4.26</average_rating>
  <ratings_count>94</ratings_count>
  <description>
    <![CDATA[Three years after E. B. White's death, Rebecca Dale discovered a cache of his <em>New Yorker</em> writings that had yet to be collected. There's certainly nothing mediocre about these 161 pieces, which range from nature vignettes (a New York City sparrow extols urban life) to musings on language, business, and liberty. White's 1953 fantasia of visiting Thoreau's Walden Pond with Joseph McCarthy is peerless. &quot;Wait a minute!&quot; the senator realizes. &quot;This man was Communist-inspired. That accounts for his sour attitude about housing--&quot; The satire is strong, but so is the celebration. A short piece on a skating fest ends: &quot;Ice is an odd substance to have at last freed the body in its persistent attempt to catch up with the spirit.&quot; And speaking of which, in &quot;Fred On Space&quot; White asks his dead dachshund how he feels about the first dog launched by the Russians. Fred is far from impressed: &quot;The excuse you men give is that you must continually add to the store of human knowledge--a store that already resembles a supermarket and is beginning to hypnotize the customers.&quot;]]>
  </description>
  <published>1990</published>
</book>

    <rating>4</rating>
  <votes>0</votes>
  <spoiler_flag>false</spoiler_flag>
  <shelves>
        <shelf name="read" />
            <shelf name="essays" />
      </shelves>
  <recommended_for><![CDATA[]]></recommended_for>
  <recommended_by><![CDATA[]]></recommended_by>
  <read_at>Sat Nov 08 00:00:00 -0800 2008</read_at>
  <date_added>Sat Nov 08 07:08:26 -0800 2008</date_added>
  <date_updated>Sat Nov 08 07:08:49 -0800 2008</date_updated>
  <read_count></read_count>
    <body><![CDATA[White, E. B.  WRITINGS FROM THE NEW YORKER:  1927-1976.  (1990).  ****.  These writings, edited by Rebecca M. Dale, are from the anonymous “Notes and Comments,” and “Talk of the Town” sections of the magazine that the editor identified as White’s work.  This is a mixed bag of topics and to...<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/37175541">more...</a>]]></body>
    
  <url><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/37175541]]></url>
  <link><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/37175541]]></link>
</review>
      <review>
  <id>11785957</id>
    <user>
    <id>718280</id>
    <name><![CDATA[Ryan]]></name>
    <location><![CDATA[Portland, OR]]></location>
    <link><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/user/show/718280-ryan]]></link>
    <image_url><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/images/nophoto-M-111x148.jpg]]></image_url>
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  <isbn>0060921234</isbn>
  <isbn13>9780060921231</isbn13>
  <text_reviews_count type="integer">12</text_reviews_count>
  <title>
    <![CDATA[Writings from The New Yorker 1927-1976]]>
  </title>
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  <link>http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/10815.Writings_from_The_New_Yorker_1927_1976</link>
  <average_rating>4.26</average_rating>
  <ratings_count>94</ratings_count>
  <description>
    <![CDATA[Three years after E. B. White's death, Rebecca Dale discovered a cache of his <em>New Yorker</em> writings that had yet to be collected. There's certainly nothing mediocre about these 161 pieces, which range from nature vignettes (a New York City sparrow extols urban life) to musings on language, business, and liberty. White's 1953 fantasia of visiting Thoreau's Walden Pond with Joseph McCarthy is peerless. &quot;Wait a minute!&quot; the senator realizes. &quot;This man was Communist-inspired. That accounts for his sour attitude about housing--&quot; The satire is strong, but so is the celebration. A short piece on a skating fest ends: &quot;Ice is an odd substance to have at last freed the body in its persistent attempt to catch up with the spirit.&quot; And speaking of which, in &quot;Fred On Space&quot; White asks his dead dachshund how he feels about the first dog launched by the Russians. Fred is far from impressed: &quot;The excuse you men give is that you must continually add to the store of human knowledge--a store that already resembles a supermarket and is beginning to hypnotize the customers.&quot;]]>
  </description>
  <published>1990</published>
</book>

    <rating>3</rating>
  <votes>0</votes>
  <spoiler_flag>false</spoiler_flag>
  <shelves>
        <shelf name="read" />
          </shelves>
  <recommended_for><![CDATA[]]></recommended_for>
  <recommended_by><![CDATA[]]></recommended_by>
  <read_at></read_at>
  <date_added>Sun Jan 06 09:48:51 -0800 2008</date_added>
  <date_updated>Sun Jan 06 09:54:03 -0800 2008</date_updated>
  <read_count></read_count>
    <body><![CDATA[I question I´ve had about writing many times is, &quot;How long should a piece be?&quot; There are the traditional forms, essays, short stories, and novels, etc., however, what if what you have to say is a simple comment or observation that requires less than 500 words to do justice to? Is it worth...<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/11785957">more...</a>]]></body>
    
  <url><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/11785957]]></url>
  <link><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/11785957]]></link>
</review>
      <review>
  <id>23263337</id>
    <user>
    <id>1038802</id>
    <name><![CDATA[Rozalyn]]></name>
    <location><![CDATA[The United States]]></location>
    <link><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/user/show/1038802-rozalyn]]></link>
    <image_url><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/images/nophoto-U-111x148.jpg]]></image_url>
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  <isbn>0060921234</isbn>
  <isbn13>9780060921231</isbn13>
  <text_reviews_count type="integer">12</text_reviews_count>
  <title>
    <![CDATA[Writings from The New Yorker 1927-1976]]>
  </title>
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  <small_image_url>http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1166334134s/10815.jpg</small_image_url>
  <link>http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/10815.Writings_from_The_New_Yorker_1927_1976</link>
  <average_rating>4.26</average_rating>
  <ratings_count>94</ratings_count>
  <description>
    <![CDATA[Three years after E. B. White's death, Rebecca Dale discovered a cache of his <em>New Yorker</em> writings that had yet to be collected. There's certainly nothing mediocre about these 161 pieces, which range from nature vignettes (a New York City sparrow extols urban life) to musings on language, business, and liberty. White's 1953 fantasia of visiting Thoreau's Walden Pond with Joseph McCarthy is peerless. &quot;Wait a minute!&quot; the senator realizes. &quot;This man was Communist-inspired. That accounts for his sour attitude about housing--&quot; The satire is strong, but so is the celebration. A short piece on a skating fest ends: &quot;Ice is an odd substance to have at last freed the body in its persistent attempt to catch up with the spirit.&quot; And speaking of which, in &quot;Fred On Space&quot; White asks his dead dachshund how he feels about the first dog launched by the Russians. Fred is far from impressed: &quot;The excuse you men give is that you must continually add to the store of human knowledge--a store that already resembles a supermarket and is beginning to hypnotize the customers.&quot;]]>
  </description>
  <published>1990</published>
</book>

    <rating>4</rating>
  <votes>0</votes>
  <spoiler_flag>false</spoiler_flag>
  <shelves>
        <shelf name="read" />
          </shelves>
  <recommended_for><![CDATA[]]></recommended_for>
  <recommended_by><![CDATA[]]></recommended_by>
  <read_at></read_at>
  <date_added>Thu May 29 17:40:09 -0700 2008</date_added>
  <date_updated>Thu May 29 17:54:39 -0700 2008</date_updated>
  <read_count></read_count>
    <body><![CDATA[This gem my grandmother actually recommended to me and I love it. It's White like you've never read him before, but it's definitely not at all surprising or shocking. I think it's basically what you would expect his opinions and thoughts to be on everything from the weather to politics-- quite charm...<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/23263337">more...</a>]]></body>
    
  <url><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/23263337]]></url>
  <link><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/23263337]]></link>
</review>
      <review>
  <id>67835022</id>
    <user>
    <id>1058046</id>
    <name><![CDATA[Craig]]></name>
    <location><![CDATA[Nashville, TN]]></location>
    <link><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/user/show/1058046-craig-m]]></link>
    <image_url><![CDATA[http://photo.goodreads.com/users/1207457162p3/1058046.jpg]]></image_url>
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    <![CDATA[Writings from The New Yorker 1927-1976]]>
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    <![CDATA[Three years after E. B. White's death, Rebecca Dale discovered a cache of his <em>New Yorker</em> writings that had yet to be collected. There's certainly nothing mediocre about these 161 pieces, which range from nature vignettes (a New York City sparrow extols urban life) to musings on language, business, and liberty. White's 1953 fantasia of visiting Thoreau's Walden Pond with Joseph McCarthy is peerless. &quot;Wait a minute!&quot; the senator realizes. &quot;This man was Communist-inspired. That accounts for his sour attitude about housing--&quot; The satire is strong, but so is the celebration. A short piece on a skating fest ends: &quot;Ice is an odd substance to have at last freed the body in its persistent attempt to catch up with the spirit.&quot; And speaking of which, in &quot;Fred On Space&quot; White asks his dead dachshund how he feels about the first dog launched by the Russians. Fred is far from impressed: &quot;The excuse you men give is that you must continually add to the store of human knowledge--a store that already resembles a supermarket and is beginning to hypnotize the customers.&quot;]]>
  </description>
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  <date_updated>Mon Aug 17 20:53:20 -0700 2009</date_updated>
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    <body><![CDATA[I recommend everyone take a dose of White everyday with breakfast.]]></body>
    
  <url><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/67835022]]></url>
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      <review>
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    <![CDATA[Writings from The New Yorker 1927-1976]]>
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    <![CDATA[Three years after E. B. White's death, Rebecca Dale discovered a cache of his <em>New Yorker</em> writings that had yet to be collected. There's certainly nothing mediocre about these 161 pieces, which range from nature vignettes (a New York City sparrow extols urban life) to musings on language, business, and liberty. White's 1953 fantasia of visiting Thoreau's Walden Pond with Joseph McCarthy is peerless. &quot;Wait a minute!&quot; the senator realizes. &quot;This man was Communist-inspired. That accounts for his sour attitude about housing--&quot; The satire is strong, but so is the celebration. A short piece on a skating fest ends: &quot;Ice is an odd substance to have at last freed the body in its persistent attempt to catch up with the spirit.&quot; And speaking of which, in &quot;Fred On Space&quot; White asks his dead dachshund how he feels about the first dog launched by the Russians. Fred is far from impressed: &quot;The excuse you men give is that you must continually add to the store of human knowledge--a store that already resembles a supermarket and is beginning to hypnotize the customers.&quot;]]>
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    <body><![CDATA[I loved this one ... as much as I love Charlotte's Web and Stuart Little, I think I like White's writing for adults even more.  This book is intelligent, funny, touching and makes you feel smarter and better for reading it.  Nice bite sized articles perfect for coffee break or before bed.  Very high...<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/43168634">more...</a>]]></body>
    
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      <review>
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    <![CDATA[Writings from The New Yorker 1927-1976]]>
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    <![CDATA[Three years after E. B. White's death, Rebecca Dale discovered a cache of his <em>New Yorker</em> writings that had yet to be collected. There's certainly nothing mediocre about these 161 pieces, which range from nature vignettes (a New York City sparrow extols urban life) to musings on language, business, and liberty. White's 1953 fantasia of visiting Thoreau's Walden Pond with Joseph McCarthy is peerless. &quot;Wait a minute!&quot; the senator realizes. &quot;This man was Communist-inspired. That accounts for his sour attitude about housing--&quot; The satire is strong, but so is the celebration. A short piece on a skating fest ends: &quot;Ice is an odd substance to have at last freed the body in its persistent attempt to catch up with the spirit.&quot; And speaking of which, in &quot;Fred On Space&quot; White asks his dead dachshund how he feels about the first dog launched by the Russians. Fred is far from impressed: &quot;The excuse you men give is that you must continually add to the store of human knowledge--a store that already resembles a supermarket and is beginning to hypnotize the customers.&quot;]]>
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    <body><![CDATA[Great stuff.  Funny.  Quick.  He helped define The New Yorker magazine's style. ]]></body>
    
  <url><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/220423]]></url>
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    <![CDATA[Three years after E. B. White's death, Rebecca Dale discovered a cache of his <em>New Yorker</em> writings that had yet to be collected. There's certainly nothing mediocre about these 161 pieces, which range from nature vignettes (a New York City sparrow extols urban life) to musings on language, business, and liberty. White's 1953 fantasia of visiting Thoreau's Walden Pond with Joseph McCarthy is peerless. &quot;Wait a minute!&quot; the senator realizes. &quot;This man was Communist-inspired. That accounts for his sour attitude about housing--&quot; The satire is strong, but so is the celebration. A short piece on a skating fest ends: &quot;Ice is an odd substance to have at last freed the body in its persistent attempt to catch up with the spirit.&quot; And speaking of which, in &quot;Fred On Space&quot; White asks his dead dachshund how he feels about the first dog launched by the Russians. Fred is far from impressed: &quot;The excuse you men give is that you must continually add to the store of human knowledge--a store that already resembles a supermarket and is beginning to hypnotize the customers.&quot;]]>
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  <read_at>Sat Jan 01 00:00:00 -0800 1994</read_at>
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    <body><![CDATA[I came this for the Christmas Greetings and stayed for everything else.]]></body>
    
  <url><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/2380797]]></url>
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    <![CDATA[Three years after E. B. White's death, Rebecca Dale discovered a cache of his <em>New Yorker</em> writings that had yet to be collected. There's certainly nothing mediocre about these 161 pieces, which range from nature vignettes (a New York City sparrow extols urban life) to musings on language, business, and liberty. White's 1953 fantasia of visiting Thoreau's Walden Pond with Joseph McCarthy is peerless. &quot;Wait a minute!&quot; the senator realizes. &quot;This man was Communist-inspired. That accounts for his sour attitude about housing--&quot; The satire is strong, but so is the celebration. A short piece on a skating fest ends: &quot;Ice is an odd substance to have at last freed the body in its persistent attempt to catch up with the spirit.&quot; And speaking of which, in &quot;Fred On Space&quot; White asks his dead dachshund how he feels about the first dog launched by the Russians. Fred is far from impressed: &quot;The excuse you men give is that you must continually add to the store of human knowledge--a store that already resembles a supermarket and is beginning to hypnotize the customers.&quot;]]>
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  <read_at>Sat Aug 30 00:00:00 -0700 2008</read_at>
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    <body><![CDATA[reading e.b. white is always such a joy]]></body>
    
  <url><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/31814765]]></url>
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      <review>
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    <![CDATA[Three years after E. B. White's death, Rebecca Dale discovered a cache of his <em>New Yorker</em> writings that had yet to be collected. There's certainly nothing mediocre about these 161 pieces, which range from nature vignettes (a New York City sparrow extols urban life) to musings on language, business, and liberty. White's 1953 fantasia of visiting Thoreau's Walden Pond with Joseph McCarthy is peerless. &quot;Wait a minute!&quot; the senator realizes. &quot;This man was Communist-inspired. That accounts for his sour attitude about housing--&quot; The satire is strong, but so is the celebration. A short piece on a skating fest ends: &quot;Ice is an odd substance to have at last freed the body in its persistent attempt to catch up with the spirit.&quot; And speaking of which, in &quot;Fred On Space&quot; White asks his dead dachshund how he feels about the first dog launched by the Russians. Fred is far from impressed: &quot;The excuse you men give is that you must continually add to the store of human knowledge--a store that already resembles a supermarket and is beginning to hypnotize the customers.&quot;]]>
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    <body><![CDATA[Father's Day gift for reading at the Ozark cabin]]></body>
    
  <url><![CDATA[http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/27119834]]></url>
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    <![CDATA[Three years after E. B. White's death, Rebecca Dale discovered a cache of his <em>New Yorker</em> writings that had yet to be collected. There's certainly nothing mediocre about these 161 pieces, which range from nature vignettes (a New York City sparrow extols urban life) to musings on language, business, and liberty. White's 1953 fantasia of visiting Thoreau's Walden Pond with Joseph McCarthy is peerless. &quot;Wait a minute!&quot; the senator realizes. &quot;This man was Communist-inspired. That accounts for his sour attitude about housing--&quot; The satire is strong, but so is the celebration. A short piece on a skating fest ends: &quot;Ice is an odd substance to have at last freed the body in its persistent attempt to catch up with the spirit.&quot; And speaking of which, in &quot;Fred On Space&quot; White asks his dead dachshund how he feels about the first dog launched by the Russians. Fred is far from impressed: &quot;The excuse you men give is that you must continually add to the store of human knowledge--a store that already resembles a supermarket and is beginning to hypnotize the customers.&quot;]]>
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    <![CDATA[Three years after E. B. White's death, Rebecca Dale discovered a cache of his <em>New Yorker</em> writings that had yet to be collected. There's certainly nothing mediocre about these 161 pieces, which range from nature vignettes (a New York City sparrow extols urban life) to musings on language, business, and liberty. White's 1953 fantasia of visiting Thoreau's Walden Pond with Joseph McCarthy is peerless. &quot;Wait a minute!&quot; the senator realizes. &quot;This man was Communist-inspired. That accounts for his sour attitude about housing--&quot; The satire is strong, but so is the celebration. A short piece on a skating fest ends: &quot;Ice is an odd substance to have at last freed the body in its persistent attempt to catch up with the spirit.&quot; And speaking of which, in &quot;Fred On Space&quot; White asks his dead dachshund how he feels about the first dog launched by the Russians. Fred is far from impressed: &quot;The excuse you men give is that you must continually add to the store of human knowledge--a store that already resembles a supermarket and is beginning to hypnotize the customers.&quot;]]>
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