Transcription
Dear Friends-
I was indeed happy to come to this gathering. I am glad to be here, to meet friends whom I have for years known by reputation and work, and glad to make the acquaintance of new friends. One (sic) It is pleasant to rub shoulders and exchange thoughts with those who love Walt Whitman. One great drawback of this huge, rushing city is that people who have ideas and interests in common do not meet often enough. I think we radicals ought to seek and emphasize much more than we do that which unites us rather than that which separates. One of the happiest meeting-grounds available is our common love and appreciation of Whitman.
He has been an inspiration to me in a very special and peculiar way. I began reading his poetry years ago at a time when I was almost overwhelmed by a sense of isolation and self-doubt. I had bitter conviction that I was shut out forever from the immense fields of human activity. Many people doubted even the simplest things that I could do. Even when I wrote an article about the blind and blindness; they asked what I could know about life! Full of physical health and spiritual impulse, I tugged and strained at the bars and bolts that would hold me within what was said to be my only world -- silent darkness. Then I read Whitman's thrilling "Song of the Open Road," glorifying the progression of souls through the universe. My spirit leaped up to meet his faith in the power of each individual to master circumstances. He stimulated me to new thought, enlarged my heart with new feeling and gave me a new zest and courage of life. It seemed as if a keen blast of sea air had freshened my whole being. I realized that no imprisoning conditions could beat back my spirit if I believe in myself and made allowance for others doubting me too. From that time I ordained myself "loos'd of limits and imaginary lines." I realized that if I could not do some things, I could do essential things -- listen to others, search, receive, thing (sic) .... carry brave sympathy in my heart for causes that I might not actively advance. I sensed a something that seemed to cancel physical limitations -- what shall I call it? I was moved forward towards the great, the endless -- to see no darkness anywhere but I might pierce it, to find no silence, however deep, but I might hear through it a new message of divine things -- to conceive no obstancles (sic) however great, but I might reach them and pass them. Instead of sensing a tumultuous, chained body I thrilled to a mind endowed with all the fulness (sic) of consciousness and will! That was before I had received the message of true democracy, and since then vision and ;ersevering (sic) effort to obey its call have been the stay and justification of my life. )Put (sic) this new sentence before the last one. He stimulated my imagination; I felt the potent urge of his spirit to go on thinking about a world that is full of wonderful things.
)Go (sic) on after justification of my life (sic) With Whitman I fare forth in the dark to prove that my spirit is equal to the world. I will know the heart of the flower I pluck, its form, its fragrance and the fluent life that runs like fire through its petals folded bright. The flower's heritage is the earth -- and the universe is mine! I will invade every darkness that oppresses the eyes of men, I will fight every silence that stops the ears of one to the joys and sorrows of another. I WILL break the spell that keeps human lips dumb with fear or betrays them to a denial of their faith. So together we fare forth to rouse souls that try to remain as in a sleep, to shut up their bloom, their music, their beauty, their humanity! So with hearts throbbing high we walk the open road together with free stride, the zest of life in our veins, the rolling earth under our feet, the flashing, youthful play of winds around us, partakers of creation's primal bliss!
Most people seem to think I am shut out from the delights they have -- light; (sic) color and sweet sounds; but I have certainty of exquisite physical sensations, and Whitman's verses have it too. They wave like flowers, they quiver like fountains or rush on like mountain torrents. In them the earth that bears me up, the earth rude and incomprehensible, the earth that never tires, is translated into the unwearied energy of spirit. The very cobble-stones and interminable pavements become to me "grand roads of the universe for the procession of souls." Under his touch common things turn into miracles. Again and again water is made into wine. In a space of sun-warmed and fragrant country I have a vision of great states, populous cities,,(sic) heroic men, loveable women, a music of leaves and winds and waters, a small (sic) of pine and sea and lilac, plunging ships, clanging machinery and reclaimed deserts. On those magic verses too I sail into the sunset and behold the welcoming West where she stands smiling "with sheaves and golden nuggest (sic) in her hand."
Looked at as an American, Whitman is incomparably our greatest poet. He is of the race of Aeschylus and Shakespeare -- a world-poet in the sense that Dante was., (sic) an artist supreme, a prophet, a voice crying in the wilderness, "Prepare the way for the new day." "Leaves of Grass" is the true American epic in the vastness of its scope, in the completeness and beauty of its execution. As the sea reflects the far-flung radiance of the stars, so "Leaves and (sic) Grass" reflects the glowing, potential soul of America. The canvas is immense. The multitude and diversity of subjects and scenes is almost bewildering. No one has felt and reproduced as Whitman has done what may be called the intimacies of American life -- the feeling )or (sic) spirit of the American, his buoyancy, energy, optimism, and his unregretful sacrifice as a pioneer. From Whitman's poetry we know that he has peered into every nook and corner of these united states (sic). He portrays America as a young giantess subduing a continent, and sings of her vastness, of her amazing resources, her multitudinous activities, her unparalleled material development, her commercialism, her restlessness, turmoil and blindness, her dullness and drudgery, her dreams and longings, her tireless energy, her limitless opportunity. She is lawless, rushing onward. Her genius is of the infinite; she is always at extremities -- she is anarchic -- she does not walk, she runs -- she does not run, she flies -- she does not fly, she falls; and all this Whitman has pictured to the very life.
And the wonderful thing to me is that he has come through all these conflicts and contracts, all the vicissitudes of life with persuasive, inspiring faith. He has larned (sic) the deepest signification of life; his faith in its capacities is immense, his acceptance of its consequences is unhesitating. He is the great Optimist. With immene (sic) tenderness he gathers humanity to his breast. Out of all darknesses, all silences, all miseries, out of the shambles and the palaces spring the flowers of courageous lives, heroic death, service, sacrifice and brotherhood, and lo, he gathers them all into his song where they shall never fade! It is truly a rare, priceless gift to have such a genius and such a man in one. Like his own poems he is forever alive, forever forward, going towards the best, towards something great, something universal.
He was born at a time when the stationary forces of the world were strongest. It seemed as if in every art, literature and philosophy the word had been spoken once for all, "So far thou shalt go, and no farther." All good causes seemed asleep. Read the history of the (sic) that period, and you will find this amazingly true. His message burst upon the world unexpected -- an unwelcome; almost alone in America he looked beyond and above the darkness of American thought. He loved the light and sparkle of life, he loved movement and change; sound and scent and sight were and endless joy to him as to most Amerians (sic). But he also looked long and with unfaltering faith for the unseen souled (sic) that the body so easily hides from kindred soul. It was this superb spirituality that gave such greatness to his songs of democracy. His personality was compelling, vigorous, vital. It is given to few to live a life so full, free, rich in experience, and by sheer audacity of faith and purpose he freed others. He gave America its first message of the new freedom, and never ceased to urge it through one of the most desperate struggles for man's bodily freedom. Since then magic conquests have been gained over nature, might (sic) empires have fallen, new kingdoms have struggled for mastery, and now the most frightful of all wars is being fought. Justice seems asleep, despotism seems about to triumph, and the bravest have been silenced. But still that message is ringing above the thunder of world- armies. Liberty has not gone, and will never go while that message rings in our hearts. Even now his words are floating over the blood-soaked fields of France, and in the hearts of defeated heroes hig (sic) high sentiment is echoed, "Liberty is to be subserved, whatever occurs." It is not defeated by one failure or several failures or any number of failures." (sic) They can still hope; for his song is a song of life itself, life indestructible, life at war with matter and force. It was the seed that grew into the tree, and the tree that flourished lustily, and it has never grown bare of (sic) ceased to bear fruit. In his song is the endless roll of the seasons, the majestic onward march of humanity. He made articulate its courageous hope of liberty, and now, behold, that hope is beginning to fulfill (sic) itself! In spite of the holocaust of war that we are living through, the social revolution is coming, and nothing shall stop it. The peoples are astir., (sic) they are becoming class conscious. If you listen with an ear to events, you will hear in the voices of the guns the prophetic announcement of what is to be. They have waked men's minds, and signs of this awakening jump tom (sic) the eye of those who are not blinded by the smoke of battle. Out yonder is Russia painfully rending the fetters of a thousand years and reaching out a free hand to help other people break theirs - Russia big, heroic, brother- loving like Whitman's poems, Russia even in her misery benign, triumphant! Avaunt the thought that Where (sic) her footfall is heard, the dust of broken empires rises! Avaunt the thought that such as the Russian soviets who roused the world to wonder and surprise should fail! A day will surely come when bullets and bombs are replaced by ideas and reason. A day will come when bayonets and machine-guns are exhibited in museums as instruments of torture are now (sic), and our children shall look upon them and marvel that such things could be. A day will come when we shall see those who are fighting one another on the battle-fields of France and Belgium united face to face, hand in hand, exchanging their products, their commerce, their arts, their thoughts (sic) What shall we do to hasten the coming of that day? Love one another.
Already tremble the helmets and crowns everywhere. Out of the trenches moves the revolution. Off go the soldiers' uniforms! Off go men's fetters! Up floats the banner flame-like flashing! The people have won! Like to a whirlwind spreading its wings the old order is passing beyond the abyss. Great is the day! Hail to freedom, hail to Democracy the great equalizer on the birthday of our greatest democrat! My friends, can you not see the lightning flash of the new day behind the dark bars of the present?
I like to think of the War as the great crucible in which all races are being melted and re-shaped for the future -- the great races and the little peoples with their strange languages and histories, their national customs and traditions, their religions, rivalries and blood-hatred. But they cannot remain like that. Out of the trenches they will come, not Frenchmen, not Germans, not Englishment (sic), not Russians, but brothers. Into that terrible melting-pot they must all go and be melted into oneness by the white heat of suffering. Through that travail of heart men must pass ere the races are fused into comrades, ere the souls of the peoples are welded together in strength and the beauty of fellowship. Can you not see them? Can you not hear them -- the People -- our brothers -- the clarified essence of Teuton, Latin, Celt, Greek, Jew, Syrian, Afriacn (sic), American, Chinese -- men who have looked into the face of death a thousand times -- who have been purged by the flame, renewed by love -- the builders of the democracy of tomorrow -- the bringers of the kingdom of God upon earth.
Things that wouldn't go in as I wanted.
)Whitman (sic) He sings the unconquerable proess (sic) of life. He is in the middle of the stream. He marches with the world's thought, not against it.
When the clamors of war are stilled, when machine-guns no longer flash forth death, the sun of truth shall once more shine rosy amid the dark, charred ruins of Europe. Again shall we hear the cry of our watchmen, "The age renews itself, full is the time! (sic)
How passing strange and marvellous (sic) is Whitman's vision of the new democracy that shall prevail here in the U.S. and in all the nations of the earth! What happy visions of comradeship his poems unfurl!
No longer shall men stoop to little hopes and little fears. When our boys come home from the wars, they will be impatient of masters, eager for change. When half-gods go, the gods arrive.
He deals wonderfully with the tremendous issues of his day. He is at home in all classes. He knows the private soldier, the great leader of men, the carpenter, the mason, the ploughman and the engineer. The eternal issues of life -- the fundamental interests of character, conduct and emotion are his material. Love, valor, self-sacrifie (sic), gaiety, curiosity, adventure -- these are the vital facts in the scheme of things. In their expression the artist and the mystic meet and shake hands.
To read "Leaves of Grass" is to feel the wind in one's face, to catch exquisite glimpses of the large new morning light of the world.
His verses seem to have the stride of heroes in them. They seem informed with spontaneity and the suavity of nature.
)Whitman (sic) He was filled with the spirit of his time. He looked at things with his own eyes, and because they were candid, penetrating, tolerant eyes, he saw the goodness and nobility as well as the meanness and cruelty., (sic) and being a poet he put his observations into memorable words. He was a lover of all men -- good men, bad men, poor men, yes -- even rich men -- a little. His mind was open to all the winds that blew.
He was charitable even to the blind hostilities of men.
Great-hearted people always like Walt Whitman. If a person tells me he does not like him, I feelm (sic) that I know something about that person. Either he has not read Whitman, or his soul-sight is imperfect, or his heart is cramped.
