Oh Charlotte

I'm reading this week's New Yorker -- despite nightly dreams of being fired (and why shouldn't I be? All I teach in the afternoons are the 67 varieties of Sit Down and Be Quiet), I've optimistically reinstated my subscription -- and am about through with the piece on E.B. White by his stepson. (I'm convinced I've read about E.B. White via his stepson before, but maybe that's just my Groundhog Life talking.)

So I'm reading this, and I come to

Death was a more reliable companion. There is not even a concealing metaphor by the time "Charlotte's Web" comes along, in 1952, seven years after "Stuart": a great short novel that begins with "Where's Papa going with that ax?" and ends, just about, when Charlotte, the spider, describes her coming death to the disbelieving young pig Wilbur, whom she has saved from that axe. Then comes the line -- experienced teachers or reading-aloud parents check to make sure that the Kleenex is handy -- "No one was with her when she died."

Oh Charlotte! Oh Charlotte! No!

Damn you, New Yorker for not warning me where we were going. Oh god, oh Charlotte.

Who the hell is coming over to read to me about the baby spiders ballooning down to cheerily greet Wilbur? WHO? God*&^%$damnit. What kind of sadists withhold the Charlottitis antidote?

I'm upset and I'm out of Kleenex.

(Also, when did Charlotte have sex? Is there some fan fiction?)