"Vigil of silence, love and death, vigil for you my son and my soldier,
As onward silently stars aloft, eastward new ones upward stole..."
"Daybreak Gray and Dim" (1890s)
Walt Whitman
I came across this striking painting while on a business trip in San Francisco, California. Post-conference, my great (truly great) aunt and I visited the de Young Art Museum, located in the beautiful Golden Gate Park. Among the grand landscape paintings of the Hudosn River School hangs a small painting, nearly dwarfed by the surrounding paintings' sheer breadth of canvas. Frederic Edwin Church swirled sunset hues into the shape of a tattered American flag, with the starry night sky suggesting the flag's own starry canton. Rather uncharacteristically, I actually appreciated its sweet sentimentality, and then was about to move on when I spotted the year in which Church painted "Our Banner in the Sky": 1861, the dawn of the Civil War.
So, speaking of Walt Whitman and the Civil War...
A couple of weeks ago saw the anniversary of the Battle of Gettysburg. And only yesterday, I finished reading Edith Wharton's novella "The Spark," centering on the effect that Walt Whitman's fictional friendship had on a young, uneducated Civil War soldier's morale fiber, in turn affecting the remainder of his life. The young soldier, now old by the end of the novella, simply knew Whitman as the "big backwoodsman" who visited him in the army hospital, and neither remembered Whitman's name nor knew of his poetry. In fact, the last lines of the novella reveal the old veteran's surprise at hearing Whitman's poetry for the first time:
A couple of weeks ago saw the anniversary of the Battle of Gettysburg. And only yesterday, I finished reading Edith Wharton's novella "The Spark," centering on the effect that Walt Whitman's fictional friendship had on a young, uneducated Civil War soldier's morale fiber, in turn affecting the remainder of his life. The young soldier, now old by the end of the novella, simply knew Whitman as the "big backwoodsman" who visited him in the army hospital, and neither remembered Whitman's name nor knew of his poetry. In fact, the last lines of the novella reveal the old veteran's surprise at hearing Whitman's poetry for the first time:
"He was a great chap, I'll never forget him. --I rather wish, though," he added, in his mildest tone of reproach, "you hadn't told me that he had wrote all that rubbish."
The Spark
Edith Wharton
I love Walt Whitman's poetry. I love its freedom and intuitiveness, its merging of beautiful, melodic rhythms with unfettered honesty. And yet, it held no interest for the soldier, since to him, it fell short of the real-life, straightforward conversations he had valued. It seemed frivolous to him, a betrayal of Whitman's grittiness and humanity.
A little of this reminds me of my father, or "Papa," as I always have called him. A brilliant, self-made man who gathers up knowledge like I hoard art supplies, his library is full of historical biographies, studies of World War II and the Civil War, and works on the American West. It does not surprise me that he, a man of exceptional character, would surround himself with the biographies of historical figures with larger-than-life personalities and strengths so equal to his own. I am sure that Papa is too humble to realize this, and would honestly insist that he reads for knowledge, adventure, and understanding.
I have never seen him read a single work of fiction.
I have never seen him read a single work of fiction.
When I bring up my love of fiction for its insight into human character, this is generally how the conversation goes:
Me: "You love reading so much, you really ought to try fiction."
Papa: "I'm not into books about unicorns and vampires."
Me: "That's fantasy."
Papa: "Fiction and fantasy are the same thing...."
Me: "Agh, no! No no no no no!
Papa: ".... and I want to read about real life."
Me: "Anatomy of a Murder, To Kill a Mockingbird, and The Help are all strongly based on real life, but the authors created them as fiction in order to weave a specific and powerful message with carefully-crafted details. It's not 100% made up, just altered with a purpose."
Papa: "Well, non-fiction isn't altered at all."
Me: "But non-fiction is mainly just facts, while fiction lets you learn more about human character and even more about yourself."
Papa: "I've only read one work of fiction in my life. I had to do a school report on Dracula. It was horrible. I am never reading fiction again."
Me: "Dracula's awesome! I mean, yeah, it's horrible, horrible."
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