cosina
"I think being a woman is like being Irish." — Iris Murdoch
books When I was getting to know Lex (my previous husband), he told me he was related to Walt Whitman. [Not true, btw!] After we were married, he pushed me to read Leaves of Grass, which somehow I'd skipped in school.
I recognized that it was good, even very good, but I didn't like it. I had to constantly bite my tongue to keep from saying things like "Out of the Toilet, Endlessly Flushing" when we had plumbing problems, or from reciting "Oh Captain, My Captain" in Jack Benny's voice, but I could not resist calling the poet Waltman, which irritated Lex greatly.
One night, at dinner with friends, when Lex was holding forth, he called him "Whit Waltman" by mistake. I gave a cough of suppressed laughter, and he glared at me (a baleful glare) -- a look -- not of daggers -- but of cannonloads of barbed wire, shrapnel, and nails. I, a true daughter of Eve, had tricked him into taking his god's name in vain.
But one day his Whitman obsession bore fruit. I think we were outside, in a field somewhere, when Lex happened to mention Specimen Days. I'd never heard of it, but it turned out to be a book of prose that Whitman had written and collected with many photographs. Lex had a copy, an old copy, and it was very precious to him. So precious, that he could hardly bear to let me read it in the house, even knowing how careful I am with books.
Well, it was Specimen Days that made me love Whitman. The recollections are extraordinary. When I (briefly) taught English in Italy, I had my students read from it aloud, and they loved it. It made them see that American English has a deep magic all its own.
When Lex and I separated, he actually hid the book, for fear that I'd steal it. I only know this because when his new wife once misplaced it, he accused me of a Mission Impossible-style heist. After that, I *did* contemplate stealing it, but never found a way to do it without his knowing it was me.
All I took when I left him was one of our good wool blankets. It was the middle of winter; I didn't want to be cold.
I recognized that it was good, even very good, but I didn't like it. I had to constantly bite my tongue to keep from saying things like "Out of the Toilet, Endlessly Flushing" when we had plumbing problems, or from reciting "Oh Captain, My Captain" in Jack Benny's voice, but I could not resist calling the poet Waltman, which irritated Lex greatly.
One night, at dinner with friends, when Lex was holding forth, he called him "Whit Waltman" by mistake. I gave a cough of suppressed laughter, and he glared at me (a baleful glare) -- a look -- not of daggers -- but of cannonloads of barbed wire, shrapnel, and nails. I, a true daughter of Eve, had tricked him into taking his god's name in vain.
But one day his Whitman obsession bore fruit. I think we were outside, in a field somewhere, when Lex happened to mention Specimen Days. I'd never heard of it, but it turned out to be a book of prose that Whitman had written and collected with many photographs. Lex had a copy, an old copy, and it was very precious to him. So precious, that he could hardly bear to let me read it in the house, even knowing how careful I am with books.
Well, it was Specimen Days that made me love Whitman. The recollections are extraordinary. When I (briefly) taught English in Italy, I had my students read from it aloud, and they loved it. It made them see that American English has a deep magic all its own.
When Lex and I separated, he actually hid the book, for fear that I'd steal it. I only know this because when his new wife once misplaced it, he accused me of a Mission Impossible-style heist. After that, I *did* contemplate stealing it, but never found a way to do it without his knowing it was me.
All I took when I left him was one of our good wool blankets. It was the middle of winter; I didn't want to be cold.
