Unwritten

"Sometimes we regret our failure to write about things that really interest us. The reason we fail is probably that to write about them would prove embarrassing. The things that we are interested us during the past week, for example, and that we were unable or unwilling to write about (the things that stand out clear as pictures in our head) were: the look in the eye of a man whose overcoat, with the velvet collar, was held together by a bit of string; the appearance of an office after the building had shut down for the night, and the obvious futility of the litter; the head and shoulders of a woman in a lighted window, combing her hair with infinite care, making it smooth and neat so the it would attract someone who could want to muss it up; Osgood Perkins in love with Lillian Gish; a man on a bicycle on Fifth Avenue; a short eulogy of John James Audubon, who spent his life loafing around, painting birds; an entry in Art Young’s diary, about a sick farmer who didn’t know what was the matter with himself but thought it was probably biliousness; and the sudden impulse that we had (and very nearly gratified) to upend a large desk for the satisfaction of seeing everything on it slide off slowly onto the floor."
E.B. White  April 26, 1930

Written eighty years ago, this essay by E. B. White is fresh and revelant today. This short essay is taken from collected essays from Writings from the New Yorker  - 1927 - 1976.  This small book sits next to my computer.  Maybe your library has a copy of this book.