volvement gave rise to the government’snrefusing to tell the truth, fornwhich there could be only one solution:n”We’ve got to quit lying to ourselvesnall the time.” Amen.nPlain talk, as plain as a Tennesseenfarmer’s butternut tunic. Robert PennnWarren — “Red,” to his friends,namong whose number the reader isninstantly enrolled — is at home in thesenpages, alive with ideas, with just thenright aphorism or reminiscence at thenready. For his many readers. Talkingnwith Robert Penn Warren is essentialnreading.nGregory McNamee is a freelancenwriter and author living in Tucson.nFevered Dreamsnby Theodore PappasnE.B. White: Writings From ThenNew Yorker, 1925-1976nEdited by Rebecca M. DalenNew York: HarperCollins;n244 pages, $20.00nCollected here are 159 of E.B.nWhite’s short pieces written fornthe New Yorker. They show White atnhis best: as critic, essayist, humorist,nand satirist. Though he will perhapsnbest be remembered for Charlotte’snWeb and the Elements of Style, thesenslices of life on everything from lipsticknto,atomic weaponry remind us ofnWhite’s talent as a cultural critic.nRebecca Dale has divided the materialninto such subjects as liberty. NewnYork, nature, and inventions, and withinneach section the chronological arrangementnallows the reader to witnessnnot only the development of White asnFor Immediate ServicenChroniclesnNEW SUBSCRIBERSnTOLL FREE NUMBERn1-800-435-0715n36/CHRONICLESna thinker, from his rather whimsicalnand flippant commentaries of then1920’s to his weightier pieces of then1950’s and 60’s, but the increasingnrefinement of his impeccable prose.nIt is in his roles as raconteur, as pithynobserver of life, and as an enemy ofncant that White’s abilities shine brightest.nWe are shown White the individualistnwho, in an essay that is as pertinentntoday as it was when he wrote it inn1938, argued that government fundingnfor the arts “assumes, among othernthings, that art is recognizable in embryo—nor at least recognizable enoughnto make it worth the public’s while tonpay for raising the baby. And it assumesnthat artists, like chickens, are responsivento proper diet.” There is White thenfreethinker who, in commenting on annewspaperman’s concern for what todaynwould be called “political correctness,”nwrote that “under such conditions,nthe fourth estate becomes a merenparody of the human intelligence, andnhad best be turned over to bright birdsnwith split tongues or to monkeys whoncan make change.” And there is Whitenthe social critic who mocked the childcentricnnature of our culture. Lind-‘nbergh’s true accomplishment was notncompleting the trip, argued White, butnthat he accomplished his feat “withoutnsaying that he did it for the kiddies.”nThere is also White the meticulousndraftsman, the grammatical purist, fornwhom the Constitution could not possiblynhave been written “to form anmore perfect union,” for whom annadvertisement’s promise to keep lipsnlooking “ravishing yet virginal” leftnhim wondering whether the manufacturernwanted ladies “to be ravished, orndoes he want them to remain virgins?”nThere is White the eternal optimistnwho, in a story seemingly about thendangers of poisonous bulbs and seeds,nreminds his reader that “we must plantnthis garden anyway.” And there isnWhite the staunch protector of personalnprivacy. Though Dale gives amplenexamples of this side to White, all palenbefore his gallant stance against then1940 census in a piece written fornHarper’s: “Nobody looks forward withnany pleasure to answering questionsnabout his income or his bathtub. Privacy,nthe abstract blessing, is a lot biggernthan the average-sized tub. And, likena tub, it can be irreparably marred byna blow from a blunt instrument, ornnnlaw.”nDespite his many virtues as a socialncritic. White was an orthodox liberalnwho embraced the fashionable causesnof his day, particularly world government.nLike so many of his contemporaries,nWhite saw little hope for humanitynwithout a new internationalnorder to deal with the new science ofndestruction. He held high hopes for the inUnited Nations, and even covered thenDumbarton Oaks Conference for thenNew Yorker in 1944, but he was notnblind to the organization’s weakness ornto the rivalries that continued betweennnational delegates. He even suggestednthat the proposed location for the U.N.nbe changed from New York to DinosaurnPark, “so that earnest statesmen, -nglancing up from their secret instructionsnfrom the home office, may gazenout upon the prehistoric sovereignsnwho kept on fighting one another untilnthey perished from the earth.”nIn the end, however, it is White’snwitty humor that rises’ to the top.nRegarding the rumble seat in one ofnWhite’s first cars, “the only lady whonever ventured into the rumble skinnednher right knee getting in and her leftnknee getting out, thus preserving ankind of rough symmetry through it all.”nRegarding the 1944 invention of revolvingndoors with electronic eyes thatndetermined “the right moment” fornthe door to begin moving, “an electricneye for a revolving door would need tonbe fitted with bifocals, because onenperson’s right moment is another person’snDunkirk.” And what about thenSoviet Union’s decision in 1957 tonsend a dog into space, to check thenanimal’s pulse, among other things?nWell, white’s dead dachshund Fred,nwhose ghost frequently visited White,ntold the writer that no dog would fritternaway time on such tricks: “A dog’sncuriosity leads him into pretty countrynand toward predictable trouble, such asna porcupine quill in the nose. Man’sncuriosity has led finally to outer spacenwhere rabbits are as scarce as gravity.nWell, you fellows can have outer space.nYou may eventually get a quill in thennose from some hedgehog of your ownnmanufacture, but I don’t envy you thenchase. So long, old Master. Dreamnyour fevered dreams!”nTheodore Pappas is the assistantneditor of Chronicles.n