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Whitman, Walt, 1819-1892

"Complete Prose Works Specimen Days and Collect, November Boughs and Goodbye My Fancy"

It is, in some sort, no less a
difference than lies between that long-continued nebular state and
vagueness of the astronomical worlds, compared with the subsequent
state, the definitely-form'd worlds themselves, duly compacted,
clustering in systems, hung up there, chandeliers of the universe,
beholding and mutually lit by each other's lights, serving for ground
of all substantial foothold, all vulgar uses--yet serving still more
as an undying chain and echelon of spiritual proofs and shows. A
boundless field to fill! A new creation, with needed orbic works
launch'd forth, to revolve in free and lawful circuits--to move,
self-poised, through the ether, and shine like heaven's own suns! With
such, and nothing less, we suggest that New World literature, fit to
rise upon, cohere, and signalize in time, these States.
What, however, do we more definitely mean by New World literature? Are
we not doing well enough here already? Are not the United States this
day busily using, working, more printer's type, more presses, than
any other country? uttering and absorbing more publications than any
other? Do not our publishers fatten quicker and deeper? (helping
themselves, under shelter of a delusive and sneaking law, or rather
absence of law, to most of their forage, poetical, pictorial,
historical, romantic, even comic, without money and without price--and
fiercely resisting the timidest proposal to pay for it.) Many will
come under this delusion--but my purpose is to dispel it.


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