Horace Traubel
(1858-1919)

Walt Whitman's
Camden Conversations

Walter Teller (Ed.), Walt Whitman's Camden Conversations (1973)
Horace Traubel visited Whitman daily for four years (1888-1892), & took notes whatever Whitman said. In 1906, fourteen years after Whitman's death, he published With Walt Whiman in Camden. Four volumes followed, total of 2600 pages. Teller chose the best of Whitman from Traubel's pages.

U.S. 867 Walt Whitman (issued 2-20-1940)

April 15, 1888 (Dress) To W's in forenoon. "I'm going up to Tom's for tea— you will be there?" He was trying on a new red tie. "Red has life in it— our men mostly look like funerals, undertakers: they set about to dress as gloomy as they can." (p. 68) April 16, 1888 (America) American life— every man is trying to outdo every other man— giving up modesty, giving up honesty, giving up generosity, to do it: creating a war, every man against every man: the whole wretched business falsely keyed by money ideals, money politics, money religions, money men. (p. 30)

Czechoslovakia 726 Walt Whitman (issued 10-27-1955)

April 20, 1888 (Life) The common heroisms of life are anyhow the real heroisms: the impressive heroisms: not the military kind, not the political kind: just the ordinary world kind, the bits of brave conduct happening about us: things that don't get into the papers— things that the preachers don't thank God for in their pulpits— the real things, nevertheless— the only things that eventuate in a good harvest. (p. 93) April 12, 1889 (Radical & Radicals) I am in favor of agitation— agitation— agitation and agitation: without the questioner, the agitator, the disturber, to hit away at our complacency, we'd get into a pretty pass indeed. (p. 149) — Walt Whitman (1819-1892)

p. 35— August 5, 1888 (America)
I believe in the higher patriotism— not, my country whether or no, God bless it and damn the rest!— no, not that— but my country, to be kept big, to grow bigger, to lead the procession, not in conquest, however, but in inspiration. If the procession, not in conquest, however, but in inspiration.

p. 42— February 27, 1889 (Books)
I sometimes find myself more interested in book making than in book writing: the way books are made—
that always excites my curiosity: the way books are written— that only attracts me once in a great while.

p. 51— August 5, 1888 (Church & Clergy)
We seem to require all kinds of bigots to complete the chapter of our sorrows— Methodist bigots, Presbyterian bigots, the bigots for the Bible, the bigots against the Bible, Quaker bigots, stiffer than their hats: all sorts, all sorts: we need them all to finish off the ornament of our hari-kari world.

pp. 74-75— May 8, 1888 (Family)
I used to be Walter— started that way: then I became Walt. My father was Walter. He had a right to Walter. I had to be distinguished from him so I was made Walt. My friends kicked: Walter looked and sounded better: and so forth, and so forth. But Walt stuck.

p. 88— June 25, 1888 (Leaves of Grass)
Sex is a red rag to most people. It takes some time to get accustomed to me, but if the folks will only persevere they will finally feel right comfortable in my presence. Children of Adam— the poems— are very innocent: they will not shake down a house.

p. 98— August 5, 1888 (Life)
It is a study— a profound study— the play in life as much as the work in life— and it is all right, too, that the people should go— should have the gala-days. They talk of the extravagance of the people. Nonsense. The people spend their money— help each other— save something— are generous, sacrificial— in so far as they can be are most lavish. Sometimes you don't pay too much for play if you pay your last cent for it.

p. 133— May 8, 1888 (Pleasures)
My sister had sent W. some cakes. I was up, it was near midnight: I felt a gnawing something here— a void— indicating his stomach and laughing— so I took some of the cakes and ate them alone, in the dark, in the dead silence. How much (perhaps all) the value of a thing— your joy, satisfaction, with it— consists in having it just at the right time: it may be a trifle but it is opportune. That's the way it was with the cakes. A little something at the right time is better than much and running over at the wrong time.

p. 135— June 25, 1889 (Poetry)
Discussing the artificial and natural himself, W. contended: "There's no difference between Homer and Virgil— oh no!— and yet there's every difference: there is, what is there?— nothing at all, people will say: but that nothing is everything— it is the whole gap between the fellow who sings because he is moved to, and the fellow who sets out deliberately to sing, and so sings!" Then he added: "I don't think you would agree to it,
but I think Emerson has a good deal of Virgil in him— a big dash of him— a long tail: not that that's all. Emerson had enough in his own right to brace him forever: but Emerson was a good deal cultivated—
though, Lord knows!— that's not to say much, for who is not cultivated? Of course I would not make
an extreme charge against Emerson, because in him there's a whole world, independent of cultivation,
that bubbles up, evolutes, is cast forth, naturally, superbly."

p. 181— May 20, 1888 (Tempo)
My mind is a slow one— it never hustles: I don't seem to know yet what I think of the portrait
(Hollyer's etching of Whitman).

p. 181— May 20, 1888 (Tempo)
I am a very slow worker— I take my work easy— but when I get going I am quite steady
and accomplish a good deal.

p. 188— August 5, 1888 (Varieties of Man)
It is curious, what are people's likes and dislikes— how their hates appear and remain,
as well as their loves. You will find one man who hates another worse than the devil,
exhibiting almost a snake— like poisonous antipathy, and yet can give no reason for it,
has no reason for it— simply knows he feels it, that is all.

p. 198— May 6, 1888 (Women)
There's a beautiful woman: she is not beautiful alone or chiefly because of her eyes, her complexion,
the mellowness of her body, though these, too, play their parts, but because of a certain unity,
atmosphere, a certain balance of light and shade, which accounts for every detail— finally
gives the detail its proper environment: yes, takes leave of the detail in the whole.

p. 201— August 24, 1888 (Words & Language)
I know of nothing I think of so little account as pretty words, pretty thought,
pretty china, pretty arrangements.

p. 202— May 8, 1888 (Words & Language)
I have never been translated into the French except in bits. It is an interesting mystery to me,
how I would pass the ordeal of getting into another language. I shall never know, of course:
I know no language but my own.

p. 205— July 14, 1888 (The Writer)
a writer, to reflect life, nature— be true to himself, to his art (if we may say that)—
must throw identity, overmastering identity, personality, verve, into his pages.

p. 205— November 21, 1888 (The Writer)
"I take it there are qualities— latent forces— in all men which need to be shaken up into life: to shake
them up— that is the function of the writer." He was conscious of the spur of his own thought upon his
thinking. "The surprise to me is, how much is spontaneously suggested which a man could never have
planned for. I sit down to write: one seemingly simple idea brings into view a dozen others: so my work
grows. A writer can do nothing for men more necessary, satisfying, than just simply to reveal to them
the infinite possibilities of their own souls."

p. 207— June 15, 1888 (Writing)
Don't stop your writing: you will soon be on good terms with yourself: difficult things will come easier,
easier, easy. Above all, write your own way: don't take my word for anything— anyone's word—
just take your own; follow your own intuition about it all, feeling sure that in the long run no other
guide can lead you so surely to the truth.

pp. 207-208— July 22, 1888 (Writing)
There is infinite treasure— oh! inestimable riches— in that mine. And the secret of it all is, to write
in the gush, the throb, the flood, of the moment— to put things down without deliberation— without
worrying about their style— without waiting for a fit time or place. I always worked that way. I took
the first scrap of paper, the first doorstep, the first desk, and wrote— wrote, wrote. No prepared picture,
no elaborated poem, no after— narrative, could be what the thing itself is. You want to catch its first spirit—
to tally its birth. By writing at the instant the very heart-beat of life is caught.

p. 208— May 4, 1889 (Writing)
Watch yourself closely. Make a habit of noting things you see— buildings, people, the crowds you face, stands,— touch off the fakirs along the busy ways— fear nothing except to overstep the truth. It would
be a good thing to do if only for exercise, but you will do it for more than that.

p. 208— June 3, 1889 (Writing)
My effort has always been to pack, condense, solidify— to get my material into the smallest space
compatible with decency.

p. 209— November 8, 1888 (Writing)
"For myself I have never had any difficulty in deciding what I should say and not say. First of all comes sincerity— frankness, open-mindedness: that is the preliminary: to talk straight out. It was said of Pericles
that each time before he went to speak he would pray that he might say nothing to excite the wrath, the anger, of the people." W. shook his head. "That is a doubtful prescription: I should not like to recommend it myself. Emerson, for one, was an impeachment of that principle: Emerson, with his clear transparent soul: he hid nothing, kept nothing back, yet was not offensive: the world's antagonism softened to Emerson's sweetness."

p. 209— October 16, 1888 (Writing)
My rule has been, so far as I could have any rule (I could have no cast-iron rule)— my rule has been, to write what I have to say the best way I can— then lay it aside— taking it up again after some time and reading it afresh— the mind new to it. If there's no jar in the new reading, well and good— that's sufficient for me.


  Walt Whitman about 1888, Photograph by Thomas Eakins (Charles E. Feinberg Collection), p. 199 (Source)