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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.

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
Revenge
Standards
Failing
Impossible
Live
Pugnacious
Children
Spirited
Mean
Bully
Bent

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Whatever satisfies the soul is truth.
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Now, Voyager, sail thou forth, to seek and find.
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There was a child went forth everyday, And the first object he looked upon and received with wonder or pity or dread, that object he became, And that object became part of him for the day or a certain part of the day... or for many years or stretching cycles of years.
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I do not ask the wounded person how he feels, I myself become the wounded person.
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Old age: The estuary that enlarges and spreads itself grandly as it pours into the Great Sea.
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Let your soul stand cool and composed before a million universes.
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The habit of giving only enhances the desire to give.
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There's no doubt that I've deserved my enemies, but I don't think I've deserved my friends.
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It is a beautiful truth that all men contain something of the artist in them. And perhaps it is the case that the greatest artists live and die, the world and themselves alike ignorant what they possess.
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Re-examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul and your very flesh shall be a great poem, and have the richest fluency, not only in its words, but in the silent lines of its lips and face, and between the lashes of your eyes, and in every motion and joint of your body.
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Here or henceforward it is all the same to me, I accept Time absolutely.
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Now, dearest comrade, lift me to your face, We must separate awhileHere! take from my lips this kiss. Whoever you are, I give it especially to you So long!And I hope we shall meet again.
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The mother condemned for a witch and burnt with dry wood, and her children gazing on The hounded slave that flags in the race and leans by the fence, blowing and covered with sweat, The twinges that sting like needles his legs and neck, The murderous buckshot and the bullets, All these I feel or am.
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I act as the tongue of you, ... tied in your mouth . . . . in mine it begins to be loosened.
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I keep thinking about you every few minutes all day.
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Our leading men are not of much account and never have been, but the average of the people is immense, beyond all history. Sometimes I think in all departments, literature and art included, that will be the way our superiority will exhibit itself. We will not have great individuals or great leaders, but a great average bulk, unprecedentedly great.
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I will sleep no more but arise, You oceans that have been calm within me! how I feel you, fathomless, stirring, preparing unprecedented waves and storms.
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Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I can bear it.
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