It’s a subtle and insidious thing, the way someone else’s way of tying words together invades one’s brain and takes control.

In my case I have E. B. White to blame, thanks to a recent crash course in his work. While writing an earlier short piece on libraries, I was startled to find that the phrase “folks hereabouts” had inserted itself into one of my sentences. I instantly recognized these words as White himself, wresting control of my pen from beyond the grave. I struck them out.

Now, I have enormous respect for E. B. White: his pieces for The New Yorker are wonderful examples of his lucid eye and urbane wit. I admire the way he quit that city and moved to a salt-water farm in Maine. And I like the way he used dry wit and subtlety to skewer the high and mighty with plain good sense. Yes, I like E. B. White a lot. I just wish he’d quit meddling in my prose.