Ten thousand, eight hundred. Plus a few.

If I can write that many words in 16 days on this website (not counting this), why can’t I muster the passion to write 1200 measly words on Letters from an American Farmer? I can’t keep betting “the next one” is going to be more interesting, because then I’ll be thoroughly fooked at the end of the term.

I will definitely be writing on Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself”, though. I’m going to change my position on Whitman a bit, as “Song of Myself” redeemed him in my eyes. Some parts I really liked: the areas describing war, one particular way he described a slave that was beautiful, and, most of all, the… completion… that existed once the poem was done. When I finished, I stopped to think about the poem, and it was like, “Wow. It really is a portrait of a man. In some places in was full-frontal nudity as well, but most of time he kept it to a portrait…” I now have Ideas for an Essay. Bruhaha!

[Listening to “Turn Around” [Enigma / LSD: Love, Sensuality and Devotion]]

One thought on “Ten thousand, eight hundred. Plus a few.”

  1. I’ve been saying it all my adult(ish) life…

    I too detested Whitman until I read Song of Myself in high school. I find that most of Whitman’s poetry speaks to an older soul, but Song of Myself bridges that gap, giving the reader an unadulterated view of what makes a man what he is. As I said to Greg the other day… Whitman’s poetry speaks to a part of my soul that is usually neglected. The only poet I love more is Oscar Wilde, and that’s an untouchable 1st place in my mind. (Obviously, since I’ve owned the collected works of Wilde since I was twelve, and have read it cover to cover at least three times). I know, I’m a dork. But I love it!

Comments are closed.