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folks w'd do well to have the three volumes viz: L of G as you already have it & then the two prose books
For the next several months Gilchrist worked on the portrait now in the Rare Book Department of the University
little technical or sentence alterations of the text of "Spec: Days in America" for your Ed'n—as the book
tremendous success, and Whitman was so showered with adulation that he observed in the Commonplace Book
1860–1918) was a Philadelphia-based publisher, whose company, founded in 1882, printed a number of books
—giving both books a touch (at any rate) of original identity & fulness— Walt Whitman Walt Whitman to
Whitman had sent the copy of Specimen Days on February 2, 1887 (Whitman's Commonplace Book, Charles E
In the latter case, the book would be rather crowded. . . No!
Burroughs would write several books involving or devoted to Whitman's work: Notes on Walt Whitman, as
Walt Whitman" for title page, & then another Vol. of the matter from page 203 to 338 (including "My Book
I send) & call it "Democratic Vistas and other papers" by Walt Whitman for title page— making two books
weather—my bird is singing furiously—I am ab't as usual— Walt Whitman I have put a couple of photos in the book
is for you —the other I think you can transfer & make for yourself a good plate for picture for the book—I
like it better to go in the vol. of the book off against the scene in the text described (as at p. 122
living on it—I get a miserable return of royalties from McKay, my Philad. publisher— not $50 for both books
wanting to have something to say in print about it—If possible send him at first a copy of your complete book
say, in such introduction—I dont think well of requesting any thing from Dowden — W W Your Ruskin book
Kennedy's letter of February 5 had been filled with ambitious plans: "The book on you that I had been
Knortz has been at me twice to make this book, & I hope you will not be displeased. . . . Dr.
Kennedy of course, did not know that Bucke's book was really Whitman's book.
On April 19 Kennedy again lauded his book ("Walt Whitman, the Poet of Humanity"): "I have completed (
(1896) and The Fight of a Book for the World (1926).
on the other side I just cut out of my Phila: Press of this morning —I am looking for your little book
In his Commonplace Book Whitman noted receiving an additional $13 at an unspecified date (Charles E.
The total, according to Whitman, was $687, but in Donaldson's book the amount is given as $692.
without pay, for the benefit of a new Church, building fund, at Collingswood" (Whitman's Commonplace Book
O'Connor's Hamlet's Note-book.
On March 23 he said that the book was to be published by Houghton, Mifflin & Company.
things at second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books
of every rank and re- ligion religion ; A farmer, mechanic, artist, gentleman, sailor, quaker; A prisoner
to consider if it really be; A morning-glory at my window satisfies me more than the metaphysics of books
well up, our leaks on the gain, and five feet of water reported; The master-at-arms loosing the prisoners
I embody all presences outlaw'd or suffering; See myself in prison shaped like another man, And feel
drawn by its breath as if I were no more than a helpless vapor—all falls aside but myself and it; Books
For it is not for what I have put into it that I have written this book, Nor is it by reading it you
I see the menials of the earth, laboring; I see the prisoners in the prisons; I see the defective human
What are your theology, tuition, society, traditions, statute-books, now?
The shape of the prisoner's place in the court-room, and of him or her seated in the place; The shape
alarm, and fre- quent frequent advance and retreat, The infidel triumphs—or supposes he triumphs, The prison
The blind sleep, and the deaf and dumb sleep, The prisoner sleeps well in the prison—the run-away son
slave is one with the master's call, and the master salutes the slave, The felon steps forth from the prison—the
YOU felons on trial in courts; You convicts in prison-cells—you sentenced assassins, chain'd and hand-cuff'd
with iron; Who am I, too, that I am not on trial, or in prison?
NOW lift me close to your face till I whisper, What you are holding is in reality no book, nor part of
a book; It is a man, flush'd and full-blooded—it is I—So long!
down, throwing the reins abruptly down on the horses' backs; The salesman leaving the store—the boss, book-keeper
doors to me, proud libraries, For that which was lacking among you all, yet needed most, I bring; A book
your dear sake, O soldiers, And for you, O soul of man, and you, love of comrades; The words of my book
nothing, the life of it every- thing everything ; A book separate, not link'd with the rest, nor felt
book-words! what are you?
17 All the hapless silent lovers, All the prisoners in the prisons, all the righteous and the wicked,
WHEN I READ THE BOOK.
I have made, The words of my book nothing, the drift of it every thing, A book separate, not link'd
All the hapless silent lovers, All the prisoners in the prisons, all the righteous and the wicked, All
book-words! what are you?
The blind sleep, and the deaf and dumb sleep, The prisoner sleeps well in the prison, the runaway son
—those hecatombs of battle-deaths—Those times of which, O far-off reader, this whole book is indeed finally
So here I sit gossiping in the early candle-light of old age—I and my book—casting backward glances over
business point of view "Leaves of Grass" has been worse than a failure—that public criticism on the book
identified with place and date, in a far more candid and comprehensive sense than any hitherto poem or book
My Book and I—what a period we have presumed to span!
I should say, indeed, it were useless to attempt reading the book without first carefully tallying that
J., has deposited in this office the title of a Book, the title or description of which is in the following
The subsequent adjusting interval which is so important to form'd and launch'd work, books especially
I answer'd, I too haughty Shade also sing war, and a longer and greater one than any, Waged in my book
Then falter not O book, fulfil fulfill your destiny, You not a reminiscence of the land alone, You too
soldiers not for itself alone, Far, far more stood silently waiting behind, now to advance in this book
WHEN I READ THE BOOK.
I have made, The words of my book nothing, the drift of it every thing, A book separate, not link'd
drawn by its breath as if I were no more than a helpless vapor, all falls aside but myself and it, Books
For it is not for what I have put into it that I have written this book, Nor is it by reading it you
library, Nor reminiscence of any deed of courage for America, Nor literary success nor intellect, nor book
for the book-shelf, But a few carols vibrating through the air I leave, For comrades and lovers.
All the hapless silent lovers, All the prisoners in the prisons, all the righteous and the wicked, All
these sights on the earth, I see the workings of battle, pestilence, tyranny, I see martyrs and prisoners
These eager business aims—books, politics, art, amours, To utter nothingness? THOUGHT.
, throwing the reins abruptly down on the horses' backs, The salesman leaving the store, the boss, book-keeper
book-words! what are you?
In you whoe'er you are my book perusing, In I myself, in all the world, these currents flowing, All,
THE SINGER IN THE PRISON. 1 O sight of pity, shame and dole! O fearful thought—a convict soul.
RANG the refrain along the hall, the prison, Rose to the roof, the vaults of heaven above, Pouring in
In one, along a suite of noble rooms, 'Mid plenteous books and journals, paintings on the walls, fine
with iron, Who am I too that I am not on trial or in prison?
labor, suffering, I, tallying it, absorb in myself, Many times have I been rejected, taunted, put in prison
Perfume this book of mine O blood-red roses! Lave subtly with your waters every line Potomac!
THIS is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless, Away from books, away from art, the day erased
things at second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books
mill, The paving-man leans on his two-handed rammer, the reporter's lead flies swiftly over the note-book
, the sign-painter is lettering with blue and gold, The canal boy trots on the tow-path, the book-keeper
Through me many long dumb voices, Voices of the interminable generations of prisoners and slaves, Voices
Embody all presences outlaw'd or suffering, See myself in prison shaped like another man, And feel the
drawn by its breath as if I were no more than a helpless vapor, all falls aside but myself and it, Books
For it is not for what I have put into it that I have written this book, Nor is it by reading it you
labor, suffering, I, tallying it, absorb in myself; Many times have I been rejected, taunted, put in prison
hour supreme, No poem proud I, chanting, bring to thee—nor mastery's rapturous verse; But a little book
Who are you, that wanted only a book to join you in your nonsense?
Let the paper remain on the desk unwritten, and the book on the shelf unopen'd!
not what is printed, preach'd, discuss'd—it eludes discussion and print; It is not to be put in a book—it
is not in this book; It is for you, whoever you are—it is no farther from you than your hearing and
descends and goes, instead of the carver that carved the supporting desk; When I can touch the body of books
their languages, governments, marriage, literature, products, games, wars, manners, crimes, pris- ons prisons
When I Read the Book 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
library, Nor reminiscence of any deed of courage for America, Nor literary success nor intellect, nor book
for the book-shelf, But a few carols vibrating through the air I leave, For comrades and lovers.
I see all the menials of the earth, laboring, I see all the prisoners in the prisons, I see the defective
Let the paper remain on the desk unwritten, and the book on the shelf unopen'd!
To look strife, torture, prison, popular odium, death, face to face! To mount the scaffold!