I want everyone to take a moment and stare at the mess I've made. It is located directly above this sentence. If it isn't clear, then you should be able to click on the image itself, and it will pop out into a different window. Here it will be easier to view this impending disaster. You might tell yourself: It looks like a bunch of words puked all over themselves. Or maybe something more like, it hurts my eyes!
Both of these are appropriate responses. I completely agree. And now for an explanation that is neither logical nor sane.
What we have here are layers on top of each other. The layers are the poem in different stages, as it progressed over the years. I have labeled each layer with a date corresponding to the edition, then morphed, altered and grafted the next revision on top of that layer. On the bottom of the pile is the first edition (1855) and the last edition is on top (1891). Everywhere in between, on top of and woven through, are the other editions. All of these images are from the Whitman Archive. I had several ideas for using images and the text from the archive to convey a message or meaning, but I went with this one for the time being to emphasize some sort of coherent point. It also took a while to do this. Perhaps this is because I didn't feel like reading A Hunger Artist again for another class. Anyway, I don't know if this image-thing actually works. The text I have taken are the lines:
The farmer stops by the bars as he walks on a First-day loafe and
looks at the oats and rye,
The lunatic is carried at last to the asylum a confirm'd case, |
(He will never sleep any more as he did in the cot in his mother's bed-room;) |
The jour printer with gray head and gaunt jaws works at his case, |
He turns his quid of tobacco while his eyes blurr with the manu- script; |
The malform'd limbs are tied to the surgeon's table, |
Our group's big question focused on the (dis?)connect and correlation between the soul and body, while keeping in mind if and how the narrator is or might be attempting to convince the reader of something.
For some reason I was drawn to the (^^above^^) section which focuses primarily on people in action. The really compelling lines were: What is removed drops horribly in a pail
So...where am I going with this? I honestly don't know. But I'll try and make something up that could work.
This line over the course of Whitman's revisions became more pronounced. Instead of being embedded within lines, running from one person's actions (the farmer, the lunatic, the printer) to another, the line began to draw attention. It got moved around. It seemed to visually grow, and make it's way into significance, creating a pronounced identity for itself. By the last revision in 1891, the line has trickled down the page and found a home all the way on the last line. The eye immediately is drawn to it while reading. It is the last thought before turning the page:
What is removed drops horribly in a pail
I dare say that it is so purposefully placed, that it reminds me of something T.S. Eliot would spend years crafting, and Pound bitching about. Okay, BUT WHAT DOES IT ALL MEAN! Well. I don't know. But maybe it could mean something. Part of your body is being dumped into a pail. Not just part of your body, but your malformed-limb-part of your body is being chopped off and discarded. At this point it is far too late to apologize for grotesquerie, but think about it: some part of you, perhaps your soul, is vehemently attached to whatever is being lost. And much like the other people in this section who are moving through the actions, this action must be reflected inward, as Whitman says,
And these [people?] tend inward to me and I tend outward to them, / And such as it is to be of these more or less I am, / And of these one and all I weave the song of myself.
I feel like I could push this thought further, but I don't know how, or if I can just yet. It's something that I will have to think about more.
But back to the technology bit. The Whitman archives provided a way to come to this realization (or whatever it is). I kept staring at the book images of that one line, and decided to squash them all together into a clustermuck of Whitman-Big-Ideas. By individually cropping the poem lines on the digital image, I zoomed in on the parts I found important, and contrasted them with the exact same lines over a period of time. In a mad-hatter sort of way I'm pleased with the result, even if it doesn't make sense to anyone else.
But if I take the concept of archiving literature, say about something I'm fascinated with, then this would be fantastic. Really. It might even help me, oh...say...when I'm writing my thesis. Next semester. So here's my dream archive that will never ever exist because J.D. Salinger is a grumpy old man who hasn't even seen a computer; let alone would never approve something this awful and wild.
Por ejemplo, say you were writing a paper about the Glass family. There are dozens of short stories since the late 40s that involve the Glass family, but say you were looking for short stories that involved only Seymour Glass. Again a whole bunch. These have been published in so many magazines it's not even funny. Some of them don't even exist anymore. But with the magical END ALL SALINGER ARCHIVE, you can search his name, and boom. Instantly find the stories you have always wanted to read, but never knew existed. No need for greedy universities in Texas to hold a secret stashes, or walk around pretending they don't exist.
Things in the literature world--and the humanities world for that matter--would be a lot simpler, and could be a point of growth. It could mean an infinite number of possibilities, whether academically, creatively or something entirely other.