In order to fully
demonstrate the commonalities of authors and thinkers it can, often enough, be
useful to create a hypothetical situation in which authors, separated by time
and/or space, meet and converse. Stepping into the great expansive realm of
hypothetical we witness Walt Whitman, José Martí and Rubén Darío walk into a
pub.
What do they talk about? Is it the mob of
people shouting and shifting among the smoky air? Is their topic of debate the
well-endowed scandalous looking woman at the end of the bar in the revealing
red dress? The lonely bar fly who never became a bride? The foul-smelling homeless
man with one shoe sleeping in the dirt and muck around the corner? In all likelihood
their topics would be concentrated on how to best portray the sorrows, the
pain, the joy, and the bond between all of these people—and by extension all
those who collectively makeup humankind. Sitting around a tall table on wobbly
wooden stools perhaps they would each share a piece or two of their own works
showing how even in poetry they are connected by this human bond.
Being
the legend that he is Walt Whitman would undoubtedly go first in performing a line
or two from “Song of Myself.” First, after taking a large gulp from his tall
hoppy pint, he’d proclaim, “I pass with the dying and birth with the new-washed
babe, and am not contained between my hat and boots [!]” (Whitman ch. 7 ln.
3-4). Those within earshot would nod their head in approval; a man is not all
that he appears to be on the outside. Whitman, standing up from his stool,
would proclaim his stance among the natural world or compare himself with the
animals which live so happily without the social conventions humankind uses to
espouse their woes. Speaking on their behalf he’d shout above the crowd
yelling, “They do not sweat and whine about their condition,/ They do not lie
awake in the dark and weep for their sins,/ They do not make me sick discussing
their duty to God” (Whitman Ch.32 lns.4-6). Turning to the natural world to
show how the capability for bliss and peace is always around humankind, but
nevertheless is difficult to find inside the canister of the human body. At
this point all three would clink their glasses together, all three sharing the
sentiment of humankind yearning for the natural state in which they were
derived. After returning to their stool José Martí would raise his glass
signaling it was time for him to take his turn in the discussion.
Standing
tall, and tipping his well-worn hat to Whitman, he would recite some lines from
“I am an Honest Man”,
In the mountains, I am a mountain.
I know the strange names
Of the herbs and the flowers
And of mortal deceits
And of sublime pains. (Martí lns. 8-12)
Whitman seeing the natural imagery connecting to his
own work would slap him on the back and tease him hinting about plagiarism. Martí
would share his two cents about how all things are connected and that among
humans he, and all others, are humans—whether black, brown, white, or purple—all
belong to the great human experience.
Afterward, finding
himself preaching to the choir, Martí would take his seat. A dark grey mood
brought on by spirits would overcome them. Leaning in close they’d begin talks
of life, love, and deceit. Another topic would float through their
conversations. The conversation of death, in one form or another, and the ways
in which humankind continues on even in the face of great adversity. As the
ruckus of the pub rages on Martí would whisper,
I have seen a man live
With his dagger at his side,
Without ever saying the name
Of she who had killed him. (Martí lns. 21-24)
He’d talk more about when he had seen his soul
counting one of two times being when “she said good-bye to [him]” and an
ominous silence would spread across the table (Martí ln.27). Rubén Darío,
seeing that the creative energies of his comrades slowly being spent for the
evening, would then stand, pour some of his drink to the floor and begin his
own speech.
Knowing
that each of them is well aware of the shared burden of human life he’d speak
without great pomp reciting from his work “Fatality.” He would say,
The tree is happy because it is scarcely sentient;
The rock is happier still, it feels nothing:
There is no pain as great as being alive,
No burden heavier than that of conscious life. (Darío
lns. 1-4).
They three would sit for a quiet moment reflecting on
this heavy load they must carry throughout life. Whitman would consider the
power of life and the freedom offered but not always taken. Martí would
consider the potent emotions conjured across the span of a lifetime. Darío
would consider how we are all bound across nations and times in the great drama
of human life. Together they’d sip on their beer in silence. Their table an
isolated gossamer bubble among the hustle and bustle of the pub.
Each
nearly reaching their peak thinking, the moment before self-realization, until Walt
Whitman would stand up from his stool and flip over the table sending the empty
bottles and glasses crashing to the floor. The pub would become as quiet as a cemetery
on a foggy night until Whitman, with an animalistic look on his face, shouted,
“I too am not a bit tamed, I too an untranslatable,/ I sound my barbaric yawp
over the roofs of the world[!]” (Whitman ch. 52 lns. 3-4). After which they’d
be thrown out of the pub and, after a few slaps on the back and their
half-hearted drunken goodbyes, return once more to their private lives contemplating
the human condition’s interweaving relationship with the natural world in which
it resides.
Works Cited
Darío, Rubén. “Fatality”.
The Norton Anthology of World
Literature: Shorter Third Edition,
Two- Volume Set. W.W. Norton. Ed. M Puchner. 2012. 695. Print.
Martí, José. “I am an
Honest Man”. The Norton Anthology
of World Literature: Shorter Third Edition,
Two- Volume Set. W.W. Norton. Ed. M Puchner. 2012. 681. Print.
Whitman, Walt. Song of Myself. The
Norton Anthology of World Literature: Shorter Third Edition, Two- Volume Set. W.W. Norton. Ed. M
Puchner. 2012. 648-653. Print.
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