Strong and content I travel the open road.
I swear to you, there are divine things more beautiful than words can tell
I am as bad as the worst, but, thank God, I am as good as the best.
Wisdom is not finally tested by the schools, Wisdom cannot be pass'd from one having it to another not having it, Wisdom is of the soul, is not susceptible of proof, is its own proof.
Seeing, hearing, feeling, are miracles, and each part and tag of me is a miracle.
I am satisfied ... I see, dance, laugh, sing.
The English tourist in American literature wants above all things something different from what he has at home. For this reason the one American writer whom the English whole-heartedly admire is Walt Whitman. There, you will hear them say, is the real American undisguised. In the whole of English literature there is no figure which resembles his - among all our poetry none in the least comparable to Leaves of Grass
If you want me again look for me under your boot soles.
I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journeywork of the stars, And the pismire is equally perfect, and a grain of sand, and the egg of the wren, And the tree toad is a chef-d'oeurve for the highest, And the running blackberry would adorn the parlors of heaven, And the narrowest hinge in my hand puts to scorn all machinery, And the cow crunching with depress'd head surpasses any statue, And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels!
When I was young I once found a book in a Dutch translation, 'The leaves of Grass'. It was the first time a book touched me by its feeling of freedom and open spaces, the way the poet spoke of the ocean by describing a drop of water in his hand. Walt Whitman was offering the world an open hand (now we call it democracy) and my 'Monument for Walt Whitman' became this open hand with mirrors, so you can see inside yourself.
I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars.
I have never really thought of him as a person, either.... A guy whose strings were broken, who didn’t feel the root of his leaves of grass connected to the field, a guy who was cracked. Like me.
I will sleep no more but arise, You oceans that have been calm within me! how I feel you, fathomless, stirring, preparing unprecedented waves and storms.
You will hardly know who I am or what I mean, But I shall be good health to you nevertheless, And filter and fibre your blood. Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged, Missing me one place search another, I stop somewhere waiting for you.
The words of my book nothing, the drift of it everything.
There is that indescribable freshness and unconsciousness about an illiterate person that humbles and mocks the power of the noblest expressive genius.
Whoever degrades another degrades me, And whatever is done or said returns at last to me.
The great city is that which has the greatest man or woman: if it be a few ragged huts, it is still the greatest city in the whole world.
Give me the splendid, silent sun with all his beams full-dazzling.
The beautiful uncut hair of graves.
And I or you pocketless of a dime, may purchase the pick of the earth.
The whole theory of the universe is directed unerringly to one single individual.
I am too not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable, I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.
I do not ask the wounded person how he feels, I myself become the wounded person.
Clear and sweet is my soul, clear and sweet is all that is not my soul.
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