All of David Markson’s references in The Last Novel to Walt Whiman:
I am he that aches with amorous love. Wrote Whitman.
Walter, leave off.
Wrote D. H. Lawrence.
Walt Whitman’s claim — never in any way verified — that he had fathered at least six illegitimate children.
Gerard Manley Hopkins, on realizing that he feels a certain kinship with Whitman:
As he is a very great scoundrel this is not a very pleasant confession.
A writer of something occasionally like English — and a man of something occasionally like genius.
Swinburne called Whitman.
Future generations will regard Bob Dylan with the awe reserved for Blake, Whitman, Picasso and the like.
Said an otherwise seemingly rational writer named Jonathan Lethem.
Before the Euro, the portrait of Yeats on Ireland’s twenty-pound note.
America’s Whitman twenty-dollar bill, when?
The Melville ten?
Twenty-five years after his death, Poe’s remains were disinterred from what had been little better than a pauper’s grave and reburied more formally.
Walt Whitman, who made the journey from Camden to Baltimore in spite of being disabled from a recent stroke, was the only literary figure to appear at the ceremonies.
That’s either the result of very impressive and obsessive note-taking or a search on Google Books.
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Nope :)
I have other methods of putting together these blog posts.
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Slave labor by students?
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LOL.
No, no. I read The Last Novel as an electronic text. It’s fairly easy to convert files to different file types these days; hence, easy to search and cite text. But, for what it’s worth, I had highlighted all of these with my index finger.
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Electronic text? Quisling.
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Harsh word, man. I love my Kindle Fire. I see no reason that printed matter should not exist contemporary with ebooks.
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Not often do I get to employ it. It was in jest and I agree de facto about your parallelism, though I worry about the economics of writing in the future. Once text can be copied indiscriminately and our video-soaked society completes its devolution to a pre-literate state, there might be more “content” than anyone knows what to do with or cares to pay for. Our revelry in the new digital labyrinth of infinite jests will be revealed to have all along been tacit collaboration with our culture’s floccinaucinihilipilification of the Word. Upon such ponderings I pile my longing to have lived in the ages of vellum and stone, when texts were monuments.
…he inveighed, in the comments section of a blog post, in an air-conditioned room, not dying of dysentery.
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