There is a librarian somewhere who loves Walt Whitman. As is customary, she is a spinster, a joyless woman who enjoys reading less than she does arranging, organizing, alphabetizing. But she is dewy-eyed crazy for "America's Poet Laureate". Obligated by the legends of library science she is dressed in the vestments of her repression: a bulky cabled sweater, practical shoes and the proverbial glasses that are a kind of mask, disguising her animal urges and her human needs. She has heard rumors of your sexual orientation for years now. Her own fear of sex makes the idea impossible. "I will not picture my heroes naked."
"This journal is not a mere literary diversion. The further I progress, reducing to order what my past life suggests, and the more I persist in the rigor of composition--of the chapters, of the sentences, of the book itself--the more do I feel myself hardening in my will to utilize, for virtuous ends, my former hardships. I feel their power." --Jean Genet
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