. . . who asked this evening after Easter dinner what I was so furiously typing into my laptop. She's just been accepted as a doctoral candidate in English - American 19th C. Literature - at Maryland.
After I explained, she went to a bookshelf and pulled down my old Leaves of Grass (complete Whitman) from
my college years, flipped around for a minute and handed me this:
Trippers and askers surround me,
People I meet, the effect upon me of my early life or the ward and city I live in, or the nation,
The latest dates, discoveries, inventions, societies, authors old and new,
My dinner, dress, associates, looks, compliments, dues,
The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman I love,
The sickness of one of my folks or of myself, or ill-doing or loss or lack of memory, or depressions or exaltations,
Battles, the horrors of fratricidal war, the fever of doubtful news, and fitful events;
These come to me days and nights, and go from me again,
But they are not the Me myself.
"
Song of Myself", 4
I must remember, this argument isn't really
that important.
Last edited by monochrome; 04-09-2012 at 09:03 AM.
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