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A review by marc129
Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman
4.0
“I celebrate myself, and sing myself"
I read a translation in Dutch of the original edition of 1855, with only 12 poems, and the first one occupies half of the book. This minimal approach (later versions were much, much more elaborate) has the effect of a trumpet call, it's pure vitalism, colored by a strong physical sensuality. It expresses deep faith in life and death, and a sense of belonging to all (a kind of transcendentalism), the organic and the anorganic, the whole universe. At the same time it testifies to a fundamental feeling of unfettered freedom, indissolubly linked with the 'I', the ego.
Style and language of these poems together form a real verbal orgy. Whitman presents grass as a symbol of life: it's persistent, wild, bending with the wind, present all around. The secret of life?: that's life itself, but with the 'ego' at its center, a complete universe orbiting around itself. “I am large, I contain multitudes".
While reading, the rational and moral voice inside myself whispered that it's not that simple, and that all this egocentrism comes with a price. I know a lot of people can't stand the exuberance of the Whitman-show (especially in his later, more elaborate versions). But what the heck: it's a dazzling experience to read this, a breath of fresh air in times of darkness. I can take on the world now.
I read a translation in Dutch of the original edition of 1855, with only 12 poems, and the first one occupies half of the book. This minimal approach (later versions were much, much more elaborate) has the effect of a trumpet call, it's pure vitalism, colored by a strong physical sensuality. It expresses deep faith in life and death, and a sense of belonging to all (a kind of transcendentalism), the organic and the anorganic, the whole universe. At the same time it testifies to a fundamental feeling of unfettered freedom, indissolubly linked with the 'I', the ego.
Style and language of these poems together form a real verbal orgy. Whitman presents grass as a symbol of life: it's persistent, wild, bending with the wind, present all around. The secret of life?: that's life itself, but with the 'ego' at its center, a complete universe orbiting around itself. “I am large, I contain multitudes".
While reading, the rational and moral voice inside myself whispered that it's not that simple, and that all this egocentrism comes with a price. I know a lot of people can't stand the exuberance of the Whitman-show (especially in his later, more elaborate versions). But what the heck: it's a dazzling experience to read this, a breath of fresh air in times of darkness. I can take on the world now.