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Whitman, Walt, 1819-1892

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

Here, and here only, are the foundations for our really
valuable and permanent verse, drama, &c.
But at present, (judged by any higher scale than that which finds the
chief ends of existence to be to feverishly make money during one-half
of it, and by some "amusement," or perhaps foreign travel, flippantly
kill time, the other half,) and consider'd with reference to purposes
of patriotism, health, a noble personality, religion, and the
democratic adjustments, all these swarms of poems, literary magazines,
dramatic plays, resultant so far from American intellect, and
the formation of our best ideas, are useless and a mockery. They
strengthen and nourish no one, express nothing characteristic, give
decision and purpose to no one, and suffice only the lowest level of
vacant minds.
Of what is called the drama, or dramatic presentation in the United
States, as now put forth at the theatres, I should say it deserves to
be treated with the same gravity, and on a par with the questions of
ornamental confectionery at public dinners, or the arrangement of
curtains and hangings in a ball-room--nor more, nor less. Of the
other, I will not insult the reader's intelligence, (once really
entering into the atmosphere of these Vistas,) by supposing it
necessary to show, in detail, why the copious dribble, either of our
little or well-known rhymesters, does not fulfil, in any respect, the
needs and august occasions of this land. America demands a poetry that
is bold, modern, and all-surrounding and kosmical, as she is herself.


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