Forbidden Literature

11| Forbidden Literature

After a long discussion about Robert Browning we switched the subject to other several different poets such as Robert Frost and Edgar Allan Poe. We spent almost forty minutes on Walt Whitman alone and just about completely forgot what we were here for in the first place.

"I'm not saying that I don't like all of  Whitman's writing," I said crossing my legs Indian style on his table. "I just don't really care for his erotic works. I mean, part five in  "Song of Myself"? That was an uncomfortable read in advanced English class. Especially when read out loud to the class." I shuddered at the memory.

Dr. Andrews leaned back in his chair, arms and legs crossed, once again the epitome of ease, as he spoke.

"Maybe you should consider that you are approaching it wrong," he suggested. "After all, Whitman is talking about sex, but not the way you think."

"He's not?"

He shook his head. "You have to look at it again after having a deeper perspective for his writing style. Once you gather that he is big on symbolic language you understand that in his poem he is actually referring to sex as a joining force, not an erotic act. Therefore, when it sounds like he is talking about having sex with the Earth he is really just talking about becoming one with it."

I blinked a few times considering what he said. "Well that's complicating. Does he have to describe his love for nature in such a perverted way? What's wrong with saying 'nature is cool'?"

Dr. Andrews chuckled. "What's wrong is that something so juvenile would not sell. He's a smart man and knows his audience. Talking in such a vulgar way makes the poem stick with you because it is so controversial. Which he is known to tangle with once or twice."

Something I had learned a while ago came back to me. "Didn't his work get banned because of its vulgarity?"

"Yep," he popped his mouth on the 'p'. "After Leaves of Grass was published he caused such an uproar it was immediately banned and he lost his job as a clerk. They even went so far as to try an arrest his publisher."

I made a face. "All of that for some scandalous poems? Seems a bit much."

"Yeah well people don't like it when things go against their own views, especially during his time. From the moment we are born we are given a set of rules of what is right and wrong. Anything that falls in the 'wrong' category is quickly tossed aside and away from public view before it could taint them. Including literature," he rolled his eyes.

"I bet they never expected the same book that they banned to be taught to their children as one of the greatest poetry novels of all time."

He nodded in agreement. "Yeah, it's a shame they didn't stop to see if any good would come out of it before throwing it out," he groaned. "I can't stand people like that. They are so narrow minded so lots of things don't get a chance, even if it later turns out to be good," his eyes seemed far off suddenly. "But I guess you could say it is these forbidden things that make an impact in the world if you fight hard enough for it."

I wasn't sure if we were still talking about Whitman or not, but he had a point though. Sometimes the things frowned upon actually end up being a good thing. Not always, but in this case it is. And maybe in another.

He grew quiet again, lost in thought until his eyes flicked down to my side and he perked up.

"Shit you're bleeding again," he threw the kit back open. "I completely forgot I'm so sorry."

I looked down at my side to see a small pool of blood sliding down from my cut. Funny, I was so consumed in our conversation I didn't feel a thing. But as soon as I looked down it began to sting.