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Whitman, Walt, 1819-1892

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

I say that
a nation may hold and circulate rivers and oceans of very readable
print, journals, magazines, novels, library-books, "poetry," &c.--such
as the States to-day possess and circulate--of unquestionable aid and
value--hundreds of new volumes annually composed and brought out
here, respectable enough, indeed unsurpass'd in smartness and
erudition--with further hundreds, or rather millions, (as by free
forage or theft aforemention'd,) also thrown into the market--and yet,
all the while, the said nation, land, strictly speaking, may possess
no literature at all.
Repeating our inquiry, what, then, do we mean by real literature?
especially the democratic literature of the future? Hard questions to
meet. The clues are inferential, and turn us to the past. At best, we
can only offer suggestions, comparisons, circuits.
It must still be reiterated, as, for the purpose of these memoranda,
the deep lesson of history and time, that all else in the
contributions of a nation or age, through its politics, materials,
heroic personalities, military eclat, &c., remains crude, and defers,
in any close and thorough-going estimate, until vitalized by national,
original archetypes in literature. They only put the nation in form,
finally tell anything--prove, complete anything--perpetuate anything.
Without doubt, some of the richest and most powerful and populous
communities of the antique world, and some of the grandest
personalities and events, have, to after and present times, left
themselves entirely unbequeath'd.


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