Whitman

Sinds ik mezelf heb binnengelaten in de wondere wereld van "American Literature and Culture before 1900" lig ik vrijwel elke nacht een uur wakker. In mijn hoofd duizelt het; de prachtigste Engelse zinnen en passages springen als schapen over de dam. De wonderen van de taal geven geen rust, juist niet. Daarvoor fascineren ze teveel.

Voor volgende week staat een oral presentation op de rol. Aan de klas moet ik een tekst uit ons GVR-vuistdikke boek* presenteren. Het wordt een gedicht van Walt Whitman over de Amerikaanse burgeroorlog.

Vigil strange I kept on the field one night;
When you my son and my comrade dropt at my side that day,
One look I but gave which your dear eyes return'd with a look I shall never forget,
One touch of your hand to mine O boy, reach'd up as you lay on the ground,
Then onward I sped in the battle, the even-contested battle,
Till late in the night reliev'd to the place at last again I made my way,
Found you in death so cold dear comrade, found your body son of responding kisses, (never again on earth responding,)
Bared your face in the starlight, curious the scene, cool blew the moderate night-wind,
Long there and then in vigil I stood, dimly around me the battle-field spreading,
Vigil wondrous and vigil sweet there in the fragrant silent night,
But not a tear fell, not even a long-drawn sigh, long, long I gazed,
Then on the earth partially reclining sat by your side leaning my chin in my hands,
Passing sweet hours, immortal and mystic hours with you dearest comrade -- not a tear, not a word,
Vigil of silence, love and death, vigil for you my son and my soldier,
As onward silently stars aloft, eastward new ones upward stole,
Vigil final for you brave boy, (I could not save you, swift was your death,
I faithfully loved you and cared for you living, I think we shall surely meet again,)
Till at latest lingering of the night, indeed just as the dawn appear'd,
My comrade I wrapt in his blanket, envelop'd well his form,
Folded the blanket well, tucking it carefully over head and carefully under feet,
And there and then and bathed by the rising sun, my son in his grave, in his rude-dug grave I deposited,
Ending my vigil strange with that, vigil of night and battle-field dim,
Vigil for boy of responding kisses, (never again on earth responding,)
Vigil for comrade swiftly slain, vigil I never forget, how as day brighten'd,
I rose from the chill ground and folded my soldier well in his blanket,
And buried him where he fell.

Ik moet en zal dit begrijpen. Passende achtergrondmuziek heb ik in elk geval al gevonden. Fleet Foxes. Tiger Mountain Peasant Song. Wow.

*The Heath Anthology of American Literature; net geen 2700 pagina's.