Pilgrimage …

… Writer's Seat | The Weekly Standard. (Hat tip, Dave Lull.)

Anyway, a year or two after our exchange I found myself out of work, footloose, and broke. I reasoned that White, an octogenarian widower living alone and in poor health, would appreciate a visit of unknown duration from a young stranger with lots of time on his hands and no visible means of support. As a courtesy I dropped my friend a line letting him know I was planning to come see him in Maine—although planning was a deceptive word. At the time I couldn’t plan a trip to the grocery store.

This was years before email, and I had no idea the postal service could operate so quickly. Within four days an envelope was in my mailbox, with elegant pale blue lettering showing the return address in the upper left hand corner. “Dear Mr. Ferguson,” the letter read. “Thank you for your letter about the possibility of a visit.” After this uplifting sentence, the tone went brittle. He mentioned a couple of his stubborn ailments, including his failing eyesight. And then: “So here I am, one eye gone, half my wits gone, and you want to come and view the ruins. Figure it out. There’s one of me, at most, and there are ten thousand of you. Please don’t come. Sincerely, E. B. White.”