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A friend called the other day from a bench in New York’s Hudson Valley to report that the weather was, at last, perfect for reading outside. As his first book of spring, he’d chosen Walt Whitman’s 1855 edition of Leaves of Grass. It took a few days for his good weather to reach where we are, but today has been, at last, an outdoor reading day. Not least of the pleasures of reading outside is one of the most prosaic: the light’s really good. No pettifoggery with lampshades or lightbulbs required.
Yes, as I say, prosaic stuff, whereas Whitman’s 1855 version of the poem remains anything but. For those of you properly afraid of the great outdoors, preferring the safety of your basement apartments to the terrors of burgeoning nature, why not head over to the Whitman Archive and read a scanned version of a first edition of Whitman’s enduring poem. You’ll find it here, whereas you’ll find me here (or somewhere like it), weekend reading.
More from Wyatt Mason:
Chances that an organ transplanted in New York City last year came from a murder victim:
Two thirds of U.S. teenagers experience uncontrollable rage.
In Gainesville, Florida, a drunk man who jumped out of his pickup truck to yell at the driver in front of him was run over by his own vehicle.
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“I hope that after reading the following pages the leaders of the Y. M. C. A. will start a campaign to induce good young men to do nothing. If so, I shall not have lived in vain.”