What lurks behind editing?

We know now a great deal about his personal life through his letters, Memoranda, information given to us by our pals Reynolds, Morris, and Erkkila, but there still remains a void. Whitman, containing multitudes, is not easily pieced together. His poetry, though we can only speculate, reveals some thing deeper than biographical information. Through the evolution of his poems, we see the evolution of the man himself– an edited poem flows from an edited mind. Song of Myself, even within its title, serves as Whitman’s mirror, and the changes that occur within the poem over 36 years reveal much about the mindset of our beloved poet not long before his death. What was even more revealing to me, however, were not the things that changed over three decades, but what stayed the same.

Within the first stanza of the 1891 version of Song of Myself, Whitman immediately makes an edit, reminding the reader that this is a different poem from a different man:

“My tongue, every atom of blood, form’d from this soil, this air,

Born here of parents born here of parents the same, and their parents the same,

I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,

Hoping to cease not till death” (188).

Whitman was, of course, not thirty-seven years old when he made this revision. Instead he reminds us of from where and who the poem originates; Song of Myself is birthed from vitality, from youth, and not from the current state of the writer at the time (nearing death). With the following line, Whitman links his thirty-seven year old self with his current self, knowing that he has achieved the “hope” of his younger self. With this, Whitman re-writes Song of Myself reflectively, and we read it reflectively. Whitman desires and challenges the reader to see the meaning behind his editing.

We have discussed at length the concept of “en masse” and its significance to Whitman, i.e. his philosophy of the American identity, unity through diversity, and comradeship, and it’s no surprise that “en masse” has become capitalized (literally) in Whitman’s writing after 36 years of theorizing it. Along with the capitalization, Whitman describes “En-Masse” as, “without flaw, it alone rounds and completes all, / that mystic baffling wonder along completes all” (210); whereas in 1855, he defines “en-masse” as, “a word of the faith that never balks,/ One time as good as another time…. here or henceforth it is all the same to me” (49). His attitude towards “En-Masse” shifts from a favorable, yet semi-apathetic one, to something he exaggerates passionately about. Whitman couples “En-Masse” with a thought on reality. In 1855 he submits a “word of reality” (49), and in 1891 he “accepts Reality and dare not question it” (210).  Reality, capitalized like En-Masse, has become a force worth recognition, something he must  submit to; for Whitman to set aside something (anything!) that he will not question, reveals the reverence he has developed for Reality. We, of course, know the reality that Whitman will meet one year later.

Despite the fact that Whitman is ailing in 1891 and nearing death, he maintains his optimistic, almost flippant, remarks about death. The 1891 SOM asserts, just as the 1855 version, that life springs from death, that death is nothing to fear: “And as to you death, and you bitter hug of mortality… it is idle to try to alarm me” (85 and 245). The only difference within these lines about death is that in 1891 “death” is capitalized, as are “corpse” and “life.” So though Whitman maintains his same theory about life and death, but in 1891he pays more respect to their significance and presence. Some lines, however, do not change at all, not even in syntax or punctuation. Most notable of the unchanged lines are the very last 8 lines of the poem. At age 37 and at age 73, Whitman chooses to end his poem with the same enigmatic, enduring words. No matter his age, we will find him under our boot-soles.

Quick post about an observation that just occurred to me. I was just reading the Preface to the 1855 Leaves of Grass and I stumbled across these little nuggets:

“The United States themselves are essentially the greatest poem.”

and:

“Here is not merely a nation but a teeming nation of nations.”

and:

‘Here is action united from strings necessarily blind to particulars and details magnificently moving in vast masses.”

and:

“Here are the roughs and beards and space and ruggedness and nonchalance that the soul loves.”

and:

“Here the performance disdaining the trivial unapproached in the tremendous audacity of its crowds and groupings and the push of its perspective spreads with crampless and flowing breadth and showers its prolific and splendid extravagance.”

After reading through these “heres”, I couldn’t shake this feeling that I had read this some where else. Check out this stanza from “By Blue Ontario’s Shore”(1856, 1881):

“These states are the amplest poem,

Here is not merely a nation but a teeming Nation of nations,

Here the doings of men correspond with the broadest doings of the day and night,

Here is what moves in magnificent masses careless of particulars,

Here are the roughs, beards, friendliness, combativeness, the soul loves,

Here the flowing trains, here the crowds, equality, diversity, the soul loves.”

The poem pulls, almost verbatim, from the preface. Can someone plagiarize them self? Fanny Fern does advise in her article “Borrowed Light” to find a great writer and copy their writings as closely as possible, perhaps Whitman is just followed her advice and selected himself as a great writer. What do you guys make of this? Any more examples of Walt’s “recycled” words?

To express oneself so freely, so eloquently, and in such detail denotes someone who is self aware. Whitman is extremely self aware and fully capable of exploring and identifying the “multitudes” within himself. I believe this heightened sense of awareness, which borders on prophetic at times, is what attracts Whitman to Lincoln. Whitman is able to identify a kindred spirit in Lincoln, a man with a similar mind and equal greatness to himself. Lincoln, however, holds authority that Whitman recognizes he himself will never wield, but he respects and almost vicariously lives through Lincoln’s great influence. Simply put, Whitman would have made the same decisions as Lincoln if he had been elected President.

What unites the men is the “great Idea,” which Whitman refers to several times in “By Blue Ontario’s Shore.” Though Whitman states that the great Idea is the “mission of poets,” he defines the great Idea in national and political terms. First he places the great Idea within the context of war (it’s no mystery what war), then the great Idea becomes part of sweeping statement about unity and equality, and lastly he couples the bard of the great Idea with the bard of “peaceful inventions” (483). Here, Whitman hints the connection between a poet and a President; both the poet and the President, though one undoubtedly more powerful than the other, can have equally as great Ideas. He takes this poetical/political comparison one step further by asserting, “these States are the amplest poem” (471), describing the potential for great unity within the Nation, which was, of course, Lincoln’s primary objective. Similarly, both men look at the “Big Picture,” look toward the future, as motivation. Whitman writes, “O days of the future I believe in you” (474), which mirrors in a more concise, poetic way Lincoln’s closing words in the Gettysburg Address: “that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government: of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.” Lincoln’s use of the future tense and words like “new birth” are no accident, both Whitman and Lincoln saw past the grim present and towards a brighter future, knowing well that the war was justified.

Though our Good Grey Poet most certainly felt connected with Lincoln, I doubt the two could have ever been friends; not because of their differing status in society, but because Walt Whitman placed Lincoln on a higher plane of existence than himself, almost deifying him. Countless times in both his poetry and prose, Whitman refers to Lincoln as a martyr, which perhaps he was, but Whitman elevates Lincoln’s martyrdom to hyperbolic, Christ-like proportions. In “This Dust Was Once The Man,” Whitman describes the South’s attempted succession from the Union as, “the foulest crime in history known in any land or age” (468), and that Lincoln saved, single-handedly, the Union from this most heinous injustice.  Aside from the ridiculousness of the first assertion (I mean, come on, the Spanish Inquisition was much worse), Whitman has made Lincoln the savior of Union. Even in his assassination, something not of Lincoln’s control at all, Whitman paints Lincoln as the critical element in America’s identity. In his lecture Whitman drives this point home over and over again: “strange (is it not?) that battles, martyrs, agonies, blood, even assassination, should so condense– perhaps only really, lastingly condense– a Nationality” (1070). Lincoln, like Christ in Christianity, becomes the fountainhead of a new nation– the first great Martyr Chief, as Whitman calls him.

It’s difficult, if not impossible, to pinpoint the bond between Whitman and Lincoln. However, I think the love Whitman feels for him is far deeper than the “crush” we joke about in class (even though Whitman likes Lincoln’s tan face quite a bit). Whitman recognized that he himself was a great man and in Lincoln he saw another great man, and maybe that’s all there is to it.

Walt Whitman craves intimacy. This thought has occurred to me sporadically throughout the semester, but the readings for this week, especially the letters and Ellen Calder’s piece,  struck me over and over again with Whitman’s desire for intimacy with any and every one. Now I think it’s safe to say that I know Walt Whitman to a certain extent; here’s what I know for sure:

1.) He is an optimist. I discussed this in my last post and now it has been officially confirmed  by Ellen Calder (*pats self on back*).

2.) He desires and is driven by intimacy.

3.) He is, without a doubt, gay. Gay as the day is long.

Of all the other unencumbered facets of the Good Grey Poet’s being, I can only offer inklings and educated guesses, but of these three things I am positive. Since Whitman’s optimism is old news,  I will delve into my discovery of the latter two of these certainties.

In his letters, no matter the recipient, Whitman will often begin with some statement like, “it is a comfort to write home, even if I have nothing in particular to say” (42), or, “I have nothing of consequence to write” (107), and then launch into multiple pages of recounting his current conditions and most recent experiences. Long-winded details are to be expected in letters to his immediate family, but his letters to his sister-in-law, Martha, his friend, Hugo Fritsch, and even to his contemporary, Ralph Waldo Emerson, express the same level of intimacy as those to his own mother. His letters, both in their content and quantity, express his eagerness for people to know him; his opening lines of, “oh I don’t have much to talk about BUT,” are a classic sign of someone who has a whole lot to say and desires the full attention and participation of the receiver (we all have a friend who does this). Whitman is not self-centered, however, he puts all this information out in hopes of receiving the same amount back. He impatiently urges his recipients to respond; even to Emerson, some one he’s not all that close with, he says, “answer me by the next mail, for I am waiting here like a ship for the welcome breath of wind” (41). Calder speaks often of the long conversations that would occur in the presence of Whitman, which further convinced me of Whitman as both a hungry contributor and consumer of information. Calder easily shares intimate details of Whitman– specific lines of poetry he would recite, certain words he liked, little sayings of his, etc.– and though we cannot know for certain, I am sure than Whitman could have just as easily shared intimate details about Ellen Calder. Intimacy is in the details, and Whitman is fueled by details. As a nurse, he picked up on preferences of certain soldiers; Morris shares how Whitman discovered that patients with a fever enjoyed the scent of lemons, and would carry around an array of “goodies” to fulfill each unique need. Whitman longs to connect with anyone who will act as recipient, be it a reader he knows personally, a reader he has never met (perhaps one in the year 2009, sitting at her laptop), a close friend, a wounded soldier, or Tom Sawyer, to whom Whitman wants to give something extra special.

No matter what Reynolds’ might claim in “Calamus’ Love,” Walt Whitman was a homosexual. Period. Reading his letters to Tom Sawyer, you would have to be utterly dense to not recognize that Whitman was infatuated, if not in love, with this soldier: “I hope we shall yet meet, as I say, if you feel as I do about it– and if [it] is destined that we shall not, you have my love none the less, whatever should keep you from me, no matter how many years” (57). As Tom continues ignoring Whitman, Whitman takes on a tone of love-sick desperation: “Do you wish to shake me off? That I cannot believe, for I have the same love for you that I exprest in my letters last spring & I am confident you have the same for me” (93). Really, Walt, you think so? Poor guy. What truly set me over the edge were Whitman’s comments about marriage to Ellen Calder. He expresses that marriage is not for him, that he does not envy a man’s wife but envies his children. In this moment, I pitied Whitman. Whitman does not desire a wife, because he cannot intimately connect with women–any woman– but he does crave a family. Of course, having two Dads was not exactly an option in 1865, so here sits Whitman fawning over Tom Sawyer and yearning for a genuine partnership and family that he knows he will never have. It’s no wonder that Whitman’s favorite lines to recite in Ellen Calder’s home were about the agony of unrequited love. Despite all his attempts at intimacy, Whitman will never know in his lifetime the fullest, greatest form of intimacy that he so desperately longs for. What results is a hopeless grasping for connection to all those around him, both inspiring and depressing.

Here’s the cliche (maxim/adage/saying/whatever) running through my mind while reading Reynolds’ article and relating it to this week’s questions: blessing in disguise. Reynolds’ reminds us that even though the Civil War was horrible, many good things came of it; things that Walt Whitman, being the saucy prophet he is, desired and foresaw with a sense of optimism. Perhaps better than my lame cliche is Reynolds little golden nugget at the very beginning of My Book and War Are One:  “[The Civil War] cleared the atmosphere like a thunderstorm” (413). Whitman might have changed stylistically, but no amount of darkness can fully smother his brightness; even within the gloomy Drum Taps there remains glimmers of Whitman’s optimism.

Reading Drum Taps there were two poems in particular that seemed non sequitur to me, City of Ships and Give Me the Splendid Sun. Next to these two poems I have scribbled excitedly “old school Walt” in pencil, feeling refreshed by the return of “O”s, exclamation marks, repetition, and lines like, “O such for me! O an intense life, full to repletion and varied!” (447). Even surrounded by death and violence, Whitman continues to muse about all the differing beauties between nature and the city. It’s almost as if these poems are his own personal escape, his “me” time, if you will. Some times he even takes a breather within the same poem, some of his more macabre poems contain their own, small “old school Walt” moments. For instance, in The Wound-Dresser, there are intermittent intermissions amongst the strenuous listing of a nurse’s duty to proclaim, “O maidens and young men I love and love me” (443), and then closes the poem with this sentiment, “(many a soldier’s loving arms about this neck have cross’d and rested, many a soldier’s kiss dwells on these bearded lips)” (445).  No matter the circumstance, Walt always seems to make time to appreciate the men around him… especially when they’re dusty.

Walt Whitman was a lover, not a fighter (I’m full of cliches today!); his passion for the masculine form and sensuality may not be as raw and zealous as it is in 1855, but it is undoubtedly present in Drum Taps. My personal favorite man-crush moment takes place within a set of parenthesis in First O Songs for a Prelude: “how good they look as they tramp down to the river, sweaty, with their guns on their shoulders!” (417). Here, also, is where he first divulges his minor dust fetish. All dust aside, these brief sensual and/or loving moments serve as a glimpse into momentary humanizing instances, however short-lived or fleeting or perhaps mentally constructed they might have been. There is also that sense perhaps Walt might have optimistically said to himself one day while watching sweaty, dusty men march past, “well, war is awful and I’m exhausted… but check out those hotties!”

I’m half kidding, of course.

Whitman seems to take war, digest it, and spit it back out optimistically. Reynolds comments that Whitman was such a unique war poet because he did not often express partisanship. To avoid partisanship in any war, let alone the Civil War, is difficult for the author and  frustrating to readers. However, more important to Whitman than politics was the “big picture” and his role in putting the pieces of America together (explaining why he was so enamored with Lincoln). The Civil War provided a force that could have never been generated by one man or one book of poems, and Whitman seems pleased to simply be a part of the progress. Even the most sorrowful times, Whitman’s songs remain triumphant.