In
the aftermath of 9/11 Whitman re-surfaced in order to help
commemorate and console over the horrible losses of that day.
In The New Yorker (October 15, 2001) editor David
Remnick invoked Whitman to frame his feelings:
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Walt Whitman remains the singular, articulated
soul of this city, and in "Song of Myself" he
seems to have projected himself forward a century and a
half into our present woe, our grief for the thousands lost
at the southern end of Manhattan, and for the hundreds of
rescuers among them, who walked into the boiling flame and
groaning steel:
I
am the smash'd fireman with breast-bone broken
Tumbling walls buried me in their debris,
Heat and smoke I inspired, I heard the yelling shouts of
my comrades,
I heard the distant click of their picks and shovels,
They have clear'd the beams away, they tenderly lift me
forth.
Largeness
of empathy was Whitman’s emotional gift and legacy. It is
indecent to look for the good in an act of mass murder,
and yet one would have to be possessed of a heart of ice
not to have felt in recent weeks the signs of Whitman’s
legacy: a civic and national spirit of resolve, improvisation,
and kindness when panic and meanness might also have been
expected.
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Finding
in Whitman a timeliness—or timelessness—that allows him to touch
our lives and, through him, for us to touch each others’, Remnick
finds in Whitman’s sympathetic identifications—his impersonations—a
model of sincerity and adhesiveness. In an entry on "Human
and Heroic New York" in his diary Specimen Days, Whitman
spelled out the grandeur of that city and its citizenry, hailing
the "rapport" and "comradeship" he found there
on his return. In fact, as I sit down to write this, I’m glancing
at the latest issue of The New Yorker, which also cites
Whitman as a benchmark; in a review of a post-9/11 anthology entitled
Poems of New York Whitman is seen as standing out: "There
are some stirring elegies here, but Whitman’s words speak most
consolingly, across the century, to the city’s new sense of strength
imperilled: "It is not upon you alone the dark patches fall,
/ The dark threw its patches down upon me also" (December
23 and 30, 2002). Of course, Whitman himself imagined his continuing
presence in such poems as "Crossing Brooklyn Ferry,"
where he broadcasts himself into the future, and it is the reproduction
of Whitman in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries—his repetition,
metaphorically speaking—that fuels this issue.
In
an editorial in The Washington Post after the 9/11 attack
Salman Rushdie further confirmed Whitman’s enduring legacy:
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They broke our city. I'm among the
newest of New Yorkers, but even people who have never set
foot in Manhattan have felt its wounds deeply, because New
York is the beating heart of the visible world, tough-talking,
spirit-dazzling, Walt Whitman's "city of orgies, walks
and joys," his "proud and passionate city – mettlesome,
mad, extravagant city!" To this bright capital of the
visible, the forces of invisibility have dealt a dreadful
blow.
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Of
course, Rushdie knows of what he speaks, and his sense of the
visibility of New York matches the new visibility Whitman has
enjoyed—a recreation and remembrance of him not only in the light
of 9/11 but in the ebb and flow of American cultural life since
his death. In seeking to commemorate and get on with the project
of rebuilding, writers have appealed to Whitman’s exuberant sense
of the city and its possibilities; in the move to memorialize—through
the repetition of Whitman’s word and phrases, through his body
and his body of poetry—they have found a way to affectively contextualize
the heroics performed on that day, the devastation that the country
suffered and witnessed, and their hope for the future.
This
second issue of the electronic Mickle Street Review is
dedicated to the idea of the repetition, replication, and mimesis
of Whitman’s persona, and to the idea of repetition in American
cultural life generally. In the lead essay Ian McGuire breaks
new ground, leading us away from a discussion of prosodic repetition
in Whitman (his catalogues, repetends, etc.) to a nuanced philosophical
discussion of repetition as it structures identity and difference.
The two essays that follow, by Andrew Higgins and Reinaldo Silva,
address the influence of another poet on Whitman and of Whitman
on another poet, respectively. Both of these authors show the
extent to which Whitman was part of the fabric of his culture—and
not just an American culture but a global one; through the replication
of certain aspects of poetic performance, new literary historical
lines may be drawn. Next up, Joel Dinerstein examines how Big
Band swing music helped a newly urbanized population cope with
the increased mechanization (and repetitions) of modern life,
capturing the power and rhythmic flow of an expanding industrial
soundscape. He reenvisions American modernity by arguing that
African American vernacular culture provided the primary means
of aesthetic adaptation to the accelerated tempo of the "machine
age." Lisle Dalton confronts phrenology in America, and although
his article is not about repetition or replication per se, it
is about an epistemology that Whitman and the phrenologists shared—one
based on correspondence, or the belief that microcosm "corresponds"
to—i.e., replicates and sympathizes with—the macrocosm. Poems
by Kim Benson, Alan Saitoh, Phil Dandrill, and Zoe Forney, whose
two 9/11 pieces are included here, extend in creative ways the
discussions inhabiting this issue.
Feature
articles do as well. Whitman re-enactor Bill Koch, whose reflections
on performing Whitman are included with video footage of his most
recent show, explains and demonstrates what it means to impersonate
Whitman, to present his persona to a live modern audience. Dramatist
Kenn Pierson documents the wide range of twentieth-century Whitman
performances on stage and screen, charting his diverse afterlife.
Primary-school teacher Thomas Smith introduces the work of his
third-graders, who through readings in Whitman and discussions
with artists about Whitman, in particular sculptor John Giannotti,
produced some remarkable poems and drawings that seek to re-imagine
him. A roundtable discussion with prominent avant-gardists about
the nature and impact of Whitman’s poetics on postmodern poetry
also helps us to establish his vital legacy. Finally, Thomas Lisk
seeks to recover the persona of Whitman at work in Civil War hospitals
and on the way reveals uncanny intersections with the poet in
the culture at large. It is our hope that this mix of perspectives
will fulfill MSR’s mission to facilitate interdisciplinary
exchanges among creative writers, artists, teachers, and scholars
interested in American literature and culture in Whitman’s day
and beyond.
In
our "Documents" section, Tricia Cherin sheds light on
California poet Ruth LePrade’s feminist re-tuning of Whitman,
and MSR is pleased to offer readers a digitized version
of the entire book of her poems, A Woman Free, originally
published in 1917 and now out-of-print. In conclusion, Whitman
scholar William Pannapacker reviews historian Gary Nash’s book
First City, an exploration of cultural life in Philadelphia and
the artifacts of memorialization.
I
would like to thank Paul Wilson, MSR’s new managing editor,
for his work on this issue, as well as Chiu Lam Chan, Tzu-Yun
Jen, Tien Nguyen and Victor Nammour, our computer specialists,
and to the other Camden On-Line Poetry Project interns. Also,
I am pleased to acknowledge the Walt Whitman Program in American
Studies at Rutgers-Camden, the Mid-Atlantic Regional Center for
the Humanities, a joint enterprise of Rutgers-Camden and Temple
universities, and the Gilder Lehrman Insititute of American History
for their intellectual and financial support of this project.
Tyler
Hoffman
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