There is a hardback copy of The Collected Essays of E.B.
White sitting at home, nestled as close kin on the shelf between Charlotte’s
Web and Lawrence Weschler’s “Calamities of Exile.” It contains this piece, “Here
is New York,” which in itself contains some of my very favorite words.
And yet, despite owning it already, for the third time, I felt
compelled to buy this slim, stand-alone volume.
The first copy I owned, I had lent to someone right in the
heart of New York, a short-term loan I expected to receive back. But
circumstance pushed us apart, and there was a long period of cold darkness
between us. Last fall, when circumstance brought us together again and I saw it
lying on a shelf in her apartment, she offered it back, but I refused. It just didn’t feel right. That beauty was
hers now.
I didn't tell her, but I had already bought another copy.
