Quiet Desperation
So I have this 12-inch die-cut image of Walt Whitman at my desk, compliments of a friend.
A few days ago someone walked past and said "Hey, isn't that Walt Whitman?"
"Yeah, it is," I said, rather excited to have someone recognize him — thinking, too, that I might be able to chat about Leaves of Grass for a spell.
"Hey," they continued, "Did you hear anything a couple years ago about some developer wanting to build condos where his pond was?"
"His pond?" I asked, eyebrows raised. "What do you mean?"
"Wasn't that what he wrote about, living in Massachusetts? That pond where he stayed."
And at that precise point, dear readers, I nearly fainted.
Labels:
brain chew,
literature
6 comments:
Walt-den Pond, Witty-man, very very Witty :)
I'm sad for you, yet glad for me. You know I would end up saying something stupid like that.
Ya know, I despair for humanity.
Everyone knows it was Wordsworth who had the pond. :-D
Sorry. Had to.
~BPP
well, I don't know about all that shit - I just hope his grandson keeps the candy factory open and doesn't outsource it to mexico or something. I love those samplers.
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Actually, I don't fault them at all for making the error. A lot of people do.
But knowing that doesn't necessarily keep me from writhing in my seat.
Walt Whitman, wuzn't he that long haired, gay man who wrote erotic poetry in his spare time?
Nah, nevah heard of him.
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