Stirred, Not Shaken

One sad thing I notice in the Longaker is how different Whitman’s view of his own body has become, now that it’s shutting down.  Here was the speaker of “Song” in 1855: The smoke of my own breath, Echos, ripples, and buzzed whispers . . . . loveroot, silkthread, crotch and vine, My respiration and inspiration . . . . the beating of […]

In a few weeks, we’ll be focusing on Whitman’s literary legacy. With that in mind, I couldn’t help being struck by this passage of the interview we read for today, in which he responds to the question “What will be the character of the American literature when it does form?”: It will be something entirely […]