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Leaves of Grass (Paperback)
by Walt Whitman, Justin Kaplan
Category:
American Literature, Poetry |
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The most extraordinary piece of wit and wisdom America has yet contributed, Whitman's best poems have that permanent quality that not being dulled by the varnish of the years. |
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Author: Walt Whitman, Justin Kaplan
Publisher: Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group Inc
Pub. in: November, 1983
ISBN: 0553211161
Pages: 528
Measurements: 6.9 x 4.2 x 1.1 inches
Origin of product: USA
Order code: BA00787
Other information: ISBN-13: 978-0553211160
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- Awards & Credential -
An classic American literature masterpiece that will never be varnished by time. |
- MSL Picks -
One of the great innovative figures in American letters, Walt Whitman created a daringly new kind of poetry that became a major force in world literature. Leaves Of Grass is his one book. First published in 1855 with only twelve poems, it was greeted by Ralph Waldo Emerson as "the wonderful gift... the most extraordinary piece of wit and wisdom that America has yet contributed." Over the course of Whitman's life, the book reappeared in many versions, expanded and transformed as the author's experiences and the nation's history changed and grew. Whitman's ambition was to creates something uniquely American. In that he succeeded. His poems have been woven into the very fabric of the American character. From his solemn masterpieces "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd" and "Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking" to the joyous freedom of "Song of Myself," "I Sing the Body Electric," and "Song of the Open Road," Whitman's work lives on, an inspiration to the poets of later generations.
Target readers:
Readers who like American literature and poems; poetry lovers who like reading Whitman.
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Walt Whitman was born on May 31, 1819, near Huntington, Long Island, New York. His father - a farmer turned carpenter from whom Whitman acquired his freethinking intellectual and political attitudes - moved his wife and nine children to Brooklyn in 1823. The young Whitman attended public schools until the age of eleven, when he was apprenticed to a printer. In 1835 he became a journeyman printer and spent the next decade working as a compositor, freelance writer, editor, and itinerant schoolteacher. But Whitman's fortunes changed in 1846 when he was named editor of the Brooklyn Eagle. However his "free soil" political beliefs cost him the editorship of the conservative paper two years later. Following his dismissal, Whitman traveled to New Orleans, where he was briefly editor of the New Orleans Crescent. Upon his return north in June 1848, he frequented the opera and museums, dabbled in politics, and immersed himself in the life of the streets. Although Whitman had earlier affected the mien of a dandy, he now dressed as a "rough" and became prominent among the bohemian element of New York. But the poems and stories he published in these years showed no hint of his future greatness.
The next five years (1850-1855), while outwardly undramatic, proved to be the most important period - intellectually and spiritually - in the life of Walt Whitman the poet. During this time he read avidly and kept a series of notebooks. Two novels by Georges Sand helped fix the direction of Whitman's thinking. One was The Countess of Rudolstadt, which featured a wandering bard and prophet who expounded the new religion of Humanity. The other was The Journeyman Joiner, the story of a proletarian philosopher who works as a carpenter with his father but also devotes time to reading, giving advice on art, and freely sharing the affection of friends. But of course it was Ralph Waldo Emerson's summons (in "The Poet") for a great American muse to step forward and celebrate the emerging nation that was pivotal to Whitman's future. On July 4, 1855, the first edition of Leaves of Grass, the volume of poems that for the next four decades would become his life's work, was placed on sale. Although some critics treated the volume as a joke and others were outraged by its unprecedented mixture of mysticism and earthiness, the book attracted the attention of some of the finest literary intelligences. "I greet you at the beginning of a great career,' Emerson wrote to Whitman. "I find incomparable things said incomparably well."
The Civil War found Whitman working as an unofficial nurse to Northern and Southern soldiers in the army hospitals of Washington, D.C. His war poems appeared in Drum-Taps (1865) and were later incorporated into Leaves of Grass - as was "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom," his elegy to the recently assassinated President Lincoln. After the war he became a clerk in the Indian Bureau of the Department of the Interior, from which he was shortly dismissed on the grounds that Leaves of Grass was an immoral book. (Whitman was soon reinstated in another government clerkship with the Department of Justice.) Despite such notoriety, his poetry slowly achieved a wide readership in America and in England, where he was praised by Swinburne and Tennyson. (D. H. Lawrence later referred to Whitman as the "greatest modern poet," and "the greatest of Americans."
Whitman suffered a stroke in 1873 and was forced to retire to Camden, New Jersey, where he would spend the last twenty years of his life. There he continued to write poetry, and in 1881 the seventh edition of Leaves of Grass was published to generally favorable reviews. However, the book was soon banned in Boston on the grounds that it was "obscene literature." Whitman was in a precarious financial way in his remaining years, and such writers as Mark Twain, Henry James, and Robert Louis Stevenson contributed to his support. Rich admirers kept him supplied with oysters and champagne (he was fond of both). Whitman even received a visitation from Oscar Wilde, who later reported that "the good gray poet" made no effort to conceal his homosexuality from him. ("The kiss of Walt Whitman," Wilde said, "is still on my lips")
In January 1892 the final "Death-bed Edition" of Leaves of Grass appeared on sale, and Whitman's life's work was complete. He died two months later on the evening of March 26, 1892, and was buried four days afterward at Harleigh Cemetery in Camden. "Most of the great poets are impersonal," Whitman once wrote of Leaves of Grass. "I am personal. . . . In my poems, all revolves around, concentrates in, radiates from myself. I have but one central figure, the general human personality typified in myself. But my book compels, absolutely necessitates, every reader to transpose himself or herself into the central position, and become the living fountain, actor, experiencer himself or herself, of every page, every aspiration, every line."
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One of the great innovative figures in American letters, Walt Whitman created a daringly new kind of poetry that became a major force in world literature. Leaves Of Grass is his one book. First published in 1855 with only twelve poems, it was greeted by Ralph Waldo Emerson as "the wonderful gift... the most extraordinary piece of wit and wisdom that America has yet contributed." Over the course of Whitman's life, the book reappeared in many versions, expanded and transformed as the author's experiences and the nation's history changed and grew. Whitman's ambition was to creates something uniquely American. In that he succeeded. His poems have been woven into the very fabric of the American character. From his solemn masterpieces "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd" and "Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking" to the joyous freedom of "Song of Myself," "I Sing the Body Electric," and "Song of the Open Road," Whitman's work lives on, an inspiration to the poets of later generations.
Abraham Lincoln read it with approval, but Emily Dickinson described its bold language and themes as "disgraceful." Ralph Waldo Emerson found it "the most extraordinary piece of wit and wisdom that America has yet produced." Published at the author's expense on July 4, 1855, Leaves of Grass inaugurated a new voice and style into American letters and gave expression to an optimistic, bombastic vision that took the nation as its subject. Unlike many other editions of Leaves of Grass, which reproduce various short, early versions, this Modern Library Paperback Classics "Death-bed" edition presents everything Whitman wrote in its final form, and includes newly commissioned notes.
Contents:
Editor's Introduction
Facsimile Frontispiece
Facsimile Title Page
Whitman's Introduction
Song of Myself
A Song for Occupations
To Think of Time
The Sleepers
I Sing the Body Electric
Faces
Song of the Answerer
Europe: The 72d and 73d Years of These States
A Boston Ballad
There Was a Child Went Forth
Who Learns My Lesson Complete
Great Are the Myths
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INSCRIPTIONS
One's-Self I Sing
One's-Self I sing, a simple separate person,
Yet utter the word Democratic, the word En-Masse.
Of physiology from top to toe I sing,
Not physiognomy alone nor brain alone is worthy for the Muse, I say the Form complete is worthier far,
The Female equally with the Male I sing.
Of Life immense in passion, pulse, and power,
Cheerful, for freest action form'd under the laws divine,
The Modern Man I sing.
As I Ponder'd in Silence
As I ponder'd in silence,
Returning upon my poems, considering, lingering long,
A Phantom arose before me with distrustful aspect,
Terrible in beauty, age, and power,
The genius of poets of old lands,
As to me directing like flame its eyes,
With finger pointing to many immortal songs,
And menacing voice, What singest thou? it said,
Know'st thou not there is but one theme for ever-enduring bards?
And that is the theme of War, the fortune of battles,
The making of perfect soldiers.
Be it so, then I answer'd,
I too haughty Shade also sing war, and a longer and greater one than any,
Waged in my book with varying fortune, with flight, advance and retreat, victory deferr'd and wavering,
(Yet methinks certain, or as good as certain, at the last,) the field the world,
For life and death, for the Body and for the eternal Soul,
Lo, I too am come, chanting the chant of battles,
I above all promote brave soldiers.
In Cabin'd Ships at Sea
In cabin'd ships at sea,
The boundless blue on every side expanding,
With whistling winds and music of the waves, the large imperious waves,
Or some lone bark buoy'd on the dense marine,
Where joyous full of faith, spreading white sails,
She cleaves the ether mid the sparkle and the foam of day, or under many a star at night,
By sailors young and old haply will I, a reminiscence of the land, be read,
In full rapport at last.
Here are our thoughts, voyagers' thoughts,
Here not the land, firm land, alone appears, may then by them be said,
The sky o'erarches here, we feel the undulating deck beneath our feet,
We feel the long pulsation, ebb and flow of endless motion,
The tones of unseen mystery, the vague and vast suggestions of the briny world, the liquid-flowing syllables,
The perfume, the faint creaking of the cordage, the melancholy rhythm,
The boundless vista and the horizon far and dim are all here,
And this is ocean's poem.
Then falter not O book, fulfil your destiny,
You not a reminiscence of the land alone,
You too as a lone bark cleaving the ether, purpos'd I know not whither, yet ever full of faith,
Consort to every ship that sails, sail you!
Bear forth to them folded my love, (dear mariners, for you I fold it here in every leaf;)
Speed on my book! spread your white sails my little bark athwart the imperious waves,
Chant on, sail on, bear o'er the boundless blue from me to every sea,
This song for mariners and all their ships.
To Foreign Lands
I heard that you ask'd for something to prove this puzzle the New World,
And to define America, her athletic Democracy,
Therefore I send you my poems that you behold in them what you wanted.
To a Historian
You who celebrate bygones,
Who have explored the outward, the surfaces of the races, the life that has exhibited itself,
Who have treated of man as the creature of politics, aggregates, rulers and priests,
I, habitan of the Alleghanies, treating of him as he is in himself in his own rights,
Pressing the pulse of the life that has seldom exhibited itself, (the great pride of man in himself,)
Chanter of Personality, outlining what is yet to be,
I project the history of the future.
To Thee Old Cause
To thee old cause!
Thou peerless, passionate, good cause,
Thou stern, remorseless, sweet idea,
Deathless throughout the ages, races, lands,
After a strange sad war, great war for thee,
(I think all war through time was really fought, and ever will be really fought, for thee,)
These chants for thee, the eternal march of thee.
(A war O soldiers not for itself alone,
Far, far more stood silently waiting behind, now to advance in this book.)
Thou orb of many orbs!
Thou seething principle! thou well-kept, latent germ! thou centre!
Around the idea of thee the war revolving,
With all its angry and vehement play of causes,
(With vast results to come for thrice a thousand years,)
These recitatives for thee,--my book and the war are one,
Merged in its spirit I and mine, as the contest hinged on thee,
As a wheel on its axis turns, this book unwitting to itself,
Around the idea of thee.
Eidolons
I met a seer,
Passing the hues and objects of the world,
The fields of art and learning, pleasure, sense,
To glean eidolons.
Put in thy chants said he,
No more the puzzling hour nor day, nor segments, parts, put in,
Put first before the rest as light for all and entrance-song of all,
That of eidolons.
Ever the dim beginning,
Ever the growth, the rounding of the circle,
Ever the summit and the merge at last, (to surely start again,)
Eidolons! eidolons!
Ever the mutable,
Ever materials, changing, crumbling, re-cohering,
Ever the ateliers, the factories divine,
Issuing eidolons.
Lo, I or you,
Or woman, man, or state, known or unknown,
We seeming solid wealth, strength, beauty build,
But really build eidolons.
The ostent evanescent,
The substance of an artist's mood or savan's studies long,
Or warrior's, martyr's, hero's toils,
To fashion his eidolon.
Of every human life,
(The units gather'd, posted, not a thought, emotion, deed, left out,)
The whole or large or small summ'd, added up,
In its eidolon.
The old, old urge,
Based on the ancient pinnacles, lo, newer, higher pinnacles,
From science and the modern still impell'd,
The old, old urge, eidolons.
The present now and here,
America's busy, teeming, intricate whirl,
Of aggregate and segregate for only thence releasing,
To-day's eidolons.
These with the past,
Of vanish'd lands, of all the reigns of kings across the sea,
Old conquerors, old campaigns, old sailors' voyages,
Joining eidolons.
Densities, growth, facades,
Strata of mountains, soils, rocks, giant trees,
Far-born, far-dying, living long, to leave,
Eidolons everlasting.
Exalte, rapt, ecstatic,
The visible but their womb of birth,
Of orbic tendencies to shape and shape and shape,
The mighty earth-eidolon.
All space, all time,
(The stars, the terrible perturbations of the suns,
Swelling, collapsing, ending, serving their longer, shorter use,)
Fill'd with eidolons only.
The noiseless myriads,
The infinite oceans where the rivers empty,
The separate countless free identities, like eyesight,
The true realities, eidolons.
Not this the world,
Nor these the universes, they the universes,
Purport and end, ever the permanent life of life,
Eidolons, eidolons.
Beyond thy lectures learn'd professor,
Beyond thy telescope or spectroscope observer keen, beyond all mathematics,
Beyond the doctor's surgery, anatomy, beyond the chemist with his chemistry,
The entities of entities, eidolons.
Unfix'd yet fix'd,
Ever shall be, ever have been and are,
Sweeping the present to the infinite future,
Eidolons, eidolons, eidolons.
The prophet and the bard,
Shall yet maintain themselves, in higher stages yet,
Shall mediate to the Modern, to Democracy, interpret yet to them,
God and eidolons.
And thee my soul,
Joys, ceaseless exercises, exaltations,
Thy yearning amply fed at last, prepared to meet,
Thy mates, eidolons.
Thy body permanent,
The body lurking there within thy body,
The only purport of the form thou art, the real I myself,
An image, an eidolon.
Thy very songs not in thy songs,
No special strains to sing, none for itself,
But from the whole resulting, rising at last and floating,
A round full-orb'd eidolon.
For Him I Sing
For him I sing,
I raise the present on the past,
(As some perennial tree out of its roots, the present on the past,)
With time and space I him dilate and fuse the immortal laws,
To make himself by them the law unto himself.
When I Read the Book
When I read the book, the biography famous,
And is this then (said I) what the author calls a man's life?
And so will some one when I am dead and gone write my life?
(As if any man really knew aught of my life,
Why even I myself I often think know little or nothing of my real life,
Only a few hints, a few diffused faint clews and indirections
I seek for my own use to trace out here.)
Beginning My Studies
Beginning my studies the first step pleas'd me so much,
The mere fact consciousness, these forms, the power of motion,
The least insect or animal, the senses, eyesight, love,
The first step I say awed me and pleas'd me so much,
I have hardly gone and hardl...
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A reader (MSL quote), USA
<2007-03-08 00:00>
Whitman is not the world's greatest poet - that's probably Shakespeare - but he's certainly been the most influential American poetic voice over the past century. He was the first poet to take all of American life as his subject. Ever the Romantic, Whitman was also the first poet to bring Romanticism into line with everyday reality.
His narcissism can be annoying, but his panoramic descriptions of life and the imagination have a singularly cumulative power. Some of his short poems (A Noiseless Patient Spider and To a Locomotive in Winter)are individually memorable. The longer poem When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloomed, indirectly about the Lincoln assassination, is brilliant. I think most of his Civil War poems are overpraised, but Come Up from the Fields, Father is a masterpiece of its kind.
On the negative side, Whitman's transcendental philosophy, which he likes to indulge at length, will strike many readers as very sappy. His style, lots of details piled up on top of one another, grows monotonous, and readers who criticize his lack of traditional poetic craftsmanship cannot just be brushed off. My advice is to not to try to get through it all at once. The poems rarely become "difficult," they just tend to blur one into the other. Which may actually have been Whitman's intention.
Overall,there's never been a book quite like Leaves of Grass, in any edition, and that's why it keeps selling as a true classic. In other words, a very old book that people still buy and read and enjoy even when no teacher is telling them to. Reading it will get you as close as one book can to actually living in nineteenth-century America, with all its follies, inequities, and promise.
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Jeanne Boone (MSL quote) , USA
<2007-03-08 00:00>
This thick soft-backed "pocket" book has 490 pages. It could be called The Complete Whitman. It contains hundreds of poems. I am a senior citizen who had not read any Whitman for more than 50 years and am enjoying it very much. His descriptions of the 19th century's people, places, and inventions are eye-openers. He was actually a feminist before there was such a concept, and also an abolitionist. He truly believed in equality and democracy. He was a nature lover and wanted to protect the environment.
Of course, there are parts I could quibble about, but that would be foolish. Whitman was a man ahead of his time.
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Maggie Cherokee (MSL quote), USA
<2007-03-08 00:00>
Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass reveals Whitman's passion for nearly every aspect of life, from amazement of great ships to the enchantment cast by the beauty of a sunset. The juxtaposition of ideas from line to line creates a vivid imagery throughout the poetry that gives the reader a sense of life as a whole; Whitman describes the broadness and complexity of his own experiences and thoughts with ease. Large sections of the collection are devoted to discussion of a broad array of subjects. For example, section three, entitled "Song of Myself", extends for about fifty pages and poems within the section are distinguished only by numbers. Although the numbers work to separate the ideas found in the passage, the thoughts still flow into one another, causing the text to present a challenging and sometimes exhausting read. However, other sections such as "Whispers of Heavenly Death" give relief from the dense material. These contain shorter poems with titles that usually aim to indicate the theme of the poem. They are more concise and easily understood, because Whitman appears to organize his thoughts, condense them, and put each one into a titled poem. Overall, the entire collection presents classic free verse poetry that retains timeless concepts and revelations of human emotions. And because of the grand style and often elevated language in the declarations Whitman uses to communicate his position on elements such as life, death, emotion, nature, heroes, love, politics, etc., the collection could be seen as something near contemporary epic poetry.
Leaves of Grass also demonstrates Whitman's incredible self-awareness; the lines in the poem "O Living Always, Always Dying" are an example of his confidence as they state, "O me, what I was for years, now dead, (I lament not, I am content;) O to disengage myself from those corpses of me, which I turn and look at where I cast them, to pass on, (O living! always living!) and leave the corpses behind." The importance of this self-assurance is that Whitman creates a more stable bond between himself and the reader, because when he gives his advice the reader becomes more liable to accept it as a plausible truth.
This collection of poetry has much to offer to a variety of readers. Since it is so broad based, anyone should be able to read it and find some concept of interest. Whitman himself appears in his poetry as a diverse individual, and therefore more people can make a connection with him. And even if there happens to be little for one to relate to, the beautiful descriptions and classic language themselves can become valuable souvenirs in the reader's memory.
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Maddie (MSL quote), USA
<2007-03-08 00:00>
Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass is an exemplary representation of both transcendentalism and realism. Walt Whitman was one of the few writers to bridge the gap between these literary movements and Leaves of Grass was, in essence, his opus. It represented the author himself and was often condemned in Whitman's time for it's blatant descriptions and incorporations of sexuality and homosexuality. However, years later it came to be appreciated for what it is truly worth as an exquisite culmination of people, emotions, and the democratic spirit.
Of the many themes covered throughout the 438 pages in the ninth edition of Whitman's masterpiece, symbolism was often used to represent allegory ideas and situations. In O Captain! My Captain! the captain symbolizes Abraham Lincoln and America is ship. In the captain's death, Whitman is alluding to the fact that in the absence of strong leadership guiding the "ship," there will be a lack of order and chaos. Song of Myself was, on the other hand, explicit in the ideal it depicted. All fifty-two sections discuss intricacies of semi-specific people or types of people; they come together as one poem and are all part of something larger. Whitman believed not only in the individual being but also in a larger being that everyone and everything was a part of, in other words the oversoul. Song of Myself is truly filler in the gap between the literary movements because it is so thoroughly transcendental in meaning, yet so precise in describing reality.
Emerson's was completely justified in praising Walt Whitman's work because it is still today very profound and extremely important in respect American literature overall. Unfortunately a fairly high mentality is required to take in his poetry for all its meaning and worth. Maturity and openness is key because often criticism of Leaves of Grass spurns from prudish and thoroughly conservative readers.
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