6/07/1889: Denver and the Westfrom With Walt Whitman in Camden

It had something in its air that fascinated me—held me. I could never entirely shake off the desire to stop there—stay there—become part of that new country. it was towards the end of my stay,—but a revelation to me. A good deal of the wealth of these places consists in actual metal—the precious metal—coins. Indeed, the wealth of this whole western country rests in just such possession, and I think Seattle must have held much in the raw.

1/19/1892: Literary Stufffrom With Walt Whitman in Camden

When something really worth while—some curious fact—comes up in the literary world, let me know; but for the ordinary float of that stuff I care nothing.

1/18/1892: Fading Morning Starfrom With Walt Whitman in Camden

Brave star! Is it Jupiter or Venus? Brave, beautiful star!

5/10/1888: The City Man and Naturefrom With Walt Whitman in Camden

After all, it is the city man, often the book man, the scholar man, who best appreciates objective nature—sees nature in her large meanings, growths, evolutions: who enters most naturally, sympathetically, into the play of her phenomena, the divine physical processes.

5/9/1889: Wonderful Babiesfrom With Walt Whitman in Camden

The wonderful new babies! Oh! how fully I have entered into them! It used to be my delight to get the youngsters, the very young ones, take them in my arms, walk them—often sing to them—hours and hours and hours. I don't know who got the most joy out of it—it seems to me the baby's could never have equalled mine: the wonderful alluring babies!

5/8/1888: You Can Call Me Waltfrom With Walt Whitman in Camden

I used to be Walter—started that way: then I became Walt. My father was Walter. He had a right to Walter. I had to be distinguished from him so I was made Walt. My friends kicked: Walter looked and sounded better: and so forth, and so forth. But Walt stuck.

5/7/1888: Of Material Successes in Civilizationfrom With Walt Whitman in Camden

What do they show? Not necessarily much: we make a big noise about the things we have done, accumulated—what we can do and will do: with some of this I have some sympathy: but after all the main question is, what is all this doing for all the men, women, children of America? The goods are worthless alone: they might demonstrate failure as well as success. Do you think goods can succeed and men can fail? They must succeed or fail together—they are damned or saved together. Against the things we call successes I see other, counter, tendencies working—an increased indisposition of certain classes to do the honest labor of the world, and the solidification of the money powers against the fraternity of the masses. Either one of these might, both of them are sure, to ruin the republic if nothing appears to contravene them.

5/3/1888: Without Knowing Lifefrom With Walt Whitman in Camden

Don't most men who write write without knowing life? Write all over the surface of the earth, never dig a foot into the ground—everlastingly write.

5/2/1891: My Life as Leavesfrom With Walt Whitman in Camden

A young man appears in the Western world—the new world—is born in the free air, near the sea—lives an early life in the early life of a big city—absorbs its meanings, the past, history, masses of men, whores, saints, sailors, laborers, carpenters, pilots—goes liberal-footed everywhere—has no erudition—reads books, reads men—prepares in himself a great ground—travels—takes everywhere—every sign a sign to him, every treasure his treasure—nothing denied—lives the life of a war—unmistakably the greatest war of history—passes through camps, enters the hospitals—using gifts of penetration (...they told me my penetration would damn me!)—accumulates, accumulates—then lets fly—lets fly—no art—no, damn art!

5/1/1888: The Results of Languagefrom With Walt Whitman in Camden

It's not quite the thing to take language by the throat and make it yield you beautiful results. I don't want beautiful results—I want results: honest results: expression: expression.

4/30/1891: Pajama Blogging in Old Agefrom With Walt Whitman in Camden

I have been on the bed here, more or less, all day—seem to love the bed more and more—which is a bad sign.

4/27/1888: Discussing Calamus with Onefrom With Walt Whitman in Camden

What does Calamus mean? What do the poems come to in the round-up? That is worrying him a good deal—their involvement, as he suspects, is the passional relations of men with men—the thing he reads so much of in the literatures of southern Europe and sees something of in his own experience.

He is always driving at me about that: is that what Calamus means?—because of me or in spite of me, is that what it means? I have said no, but no does not satisfy him.

I often say to myself about Calamus—perhaps it means more or less than what I thought myself—means different: perhaps I don't know what it all means—perhaps never did know.

My first instinct about all that ... is violently reactionary—is strong and brutal for no, no, no.

Then the thought intervenes that I maybe do not know all my own meanings: I say to myself: 'You, too, go away, come back, study your own book—an alien or stranger, study your own book, see what it amounts to.

4/26/1888: One of the Roughs Indeedfrom With Walt Whitman in Camden

Day by day, in these older years of my life, I see how lucky I was that I was myself thrown out early upon the average earth—to wrestle for myself—among the masses of people—never living in coteries: that I have always lived cheek by jowl with the common people—yes indeed, not only bred that way but born that way. I was in a sense a boy of the farm and the streets; it was my fate, my good fate.

4/25/1888: A Visit with an Anarchistfrom With Walt Whitman in Camden

He was a stranger to me—a Russian, I think: clean, earnest, with a beautiful face—but too insistent: he would have me, whether I would or would not, say yes to his political, or revolutionary, program. We had no quarrel—I only made it plain to him that I was not to be impressed into that sort of service. Everybody comes here demanding endorsements: endorse this, endorse that: each man thinks I am radical his way: I suppose I am radical his way, but I am not radical his way alone. Socialists, single tax men, communists, rebels of every sort and all sorts, come here. I don't say they shouldn't come—that it's unreasonable for them to come: the Leaves is responsible for them and for more than them. But I am not economically informed—I do not see the fine—even the coarse—points of difference between the contestants. I said to the Russian today: 'Don't ask me for too many definitions. Be satisfied with my general assurance. My heart is with all you rebels—all of you, today, always, wherever: your flag is my flag. Why should you want me to give you more?' The fellow was sensible—said he had learned a thing or two—and went away. I think Emerson was sweeter with such men than I am—was more patient, was more willing to wait their talk out.