In this collection of New Yorker columns, E. B. White writes with warmth and precision, infusing humble objects with vitality like a scientist systematically galvanizing small frogs. Postage stamps mate like grasshoppers; fir trees cluster like a theater's audience; a dachshund clambers into a sick-bed "like some lecherous old physician." ( )

I expected to like this more. ( )

Essays on various unrelated subjects, each in the loose framework of a letter. Those that are more autobiographical can be quite nice. Others focus on Modern Society (and/or What Is Wrong with It): international politics, television advertisements, poorly made automobiles, etc. Those can be dull, although they're always well written, and it's interesting to see the perspective of an old man in the 1950's. ( )