Quote

The road to wisdom is paved with excess. The mark of a true writer is their ability to mystify the familiar and familiarize the strange.

Walt Whitman

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Walt Whitman
Age: 72 †
Born: 1819
Born: May 31
Died: 1892
Died: March 26
Editor
Essayist
Journalist
Novelist
Nurse
Poet
Writer
West Hills
New York
Walter Whitman
Wisdom
Familiarize
Ability
Paved
True
Excess
Familiar
Road
Mark
Writer
Strange
Mystify

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The poet judges not as a judge judges but as the sun falling around a helpless thing.
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Sure as the most certain sure, plumb in the uprights, well entretied, braced in the beams, Stout as a horse, affectionate, haughty, electrical, I and this mystery here we stand.
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I dote on myself. There is a lot of me and all so luscious.
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All faults may be forgiven of him who has perfect candor.
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Not I, nor anyone else can travel that road for you. You must travel it by yourself. It is not far. It is within reach. Perhaps you have been on it since you were born, and did not know. Perhaps it is everywhere - on water and land.
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I believe in the flesh and the appetites, Seeing, hearing, feeling, are miracles, and each part and tag of me is a miracle. Divine am I inside and out, and I make holy whatever I touch or am touched from, The scent of these armpits aroma finer than prayer, This head more than churches, bibles, and all the creeds.
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Dazzling and tremendous how quick the sun-rise would kill me, if I could not now and always send sun-rise out of me.
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Whoever is not in his coffin and the dark grave, let him know he has enough.
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And I will show of male and female that either is but the equal of the other.
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You must not know too much or be too precise or scientific about birds and trees and flowers and watercraft a certain free-margin , or even vagueness - ignorance, credulity - helps your enjoyment of these things.
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I sing the body electric.
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God is a mean-spirited, pugnacious bully bent on revenge against His children for failing to live up to his impossible standards.
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You road I enter upon and look around, I believe you are not all that is here, I believe much unseen is also here
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Do I contradict myself? Very well, then I contradict myself, I am large, I contain multitudes.
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I think of few heroic actions, which cannot be traced to the artistical impulse. He who does great deeds, does them from his innate sensitiveness to moral beauty.
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Out of the cradle endlessly rocking, Out of the mocking bird's throat, the musical shuttle, . . . . A reminiscence sing.
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Praised be the fathomless universe, for life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious.
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All music is what awakes from you when you are reminded by the instruments. It is not the violins and the cornets-it is not the oboe nor the beating drums, nor the score of the baritone singer singing his sweet romanza-nor that of the women's chorus it is nearer and farther than they.
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The jour printer with gray head and gaunt jaws works at his case, He turns his quid of tobacco, while his eyes blur with the manuscript.
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In the faces of men and women, I see God.
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