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Whitman, Walt, 1819-1892

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


As things are, probably no more puzzling question ever offer'd itself
than (going back to old Nile for a trope,) What bread-seeds of printed
mentality shall we cast upon America's waters, to grow and return
after many days? Is there for the future authorship of the United
States any better way than submission to the teeming facts, events,
activities, and importations already vital through and beneath them
all? I have often ponder'd it, and felt myself disposed to let it go
at that. Indeed, are not those facts and activities and importations
potent and certain to fulfil themselves all through our Commonwealth,
irrespective of any attempt from individual guidance? But allowing
all, and even at that, a good part of the matter being honest
discussion, examination, and earnest personal presentation, we may
even for sanitary exercise and contact plunge boldly into the spread
of the many waves and cross-tides, as follows. Or, to change the
figure, I will present my varied little collation (what is our Country
itself but an infinitely vast and varied collation?) in the hope that
the show itself indicates a duty getting more and more incumbent every
day.
In general, civilization's totality or real representative National
Literature formates itself (like language, or "the weather") not from
two or three influences, however important, nor from any learned
syllabus, or criticism, or what ought to be, nor from any minds
or advice of toploftical quarters--and indeed not at all from the
influences and ways ostensibly supposed (though they too are adopted,
after a sort)--but slowly, slowly, curiously, from many more and more,
deeper mixings and siftings (especially in America) and generations
and years and races, and what largely appears to be chance--but is
not chance at all.


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