"Our writing tools are also working on our thoughts." --Nietzsche (1)
WHEN I TEACH WHITMAN, I often start with the opening of a children's book about the poet because it so smartly gets at the essential Whitman by offering an image of a typeset page opposite its title page (see Figure 1). Taking my cue from this book's foregrounding of Whitman the printer, this essay will argue that we have yet to appreciate fully the role of print in Whitman's writing practices. I am calling for renewed attention to a special kind of hybridity in Whitman's manuscripts--their intermingling of print and handwritten elements--in order to reconfigure our paradigms for thinking about Whitman's writings in ways that resist, on the one hand, the privileging of manuscripts as somehow closer to an "authentic" Whitmanian self, and, on the other, the familiar print/manuscript binary, in which print functions always as the distinct telos and destination toward which manuscript writing necessarily, inevitably tends.
One way to begin this reconsideration of the relationship between manuscript and print in Whitman's work is to revisit the relationship between the published "calamus" poems that first appeared in the third edition of Leaves of Grass and the manuscript series "Live Oak, with Moss." Hershel Parker re-opened this discussion with his 1996 essay, "The Real 'Live Oak, with Moss': Straight Talk about Whitman's Gay Manifesto," in which he argued for the importance of "Live Oak" as a coherent sequence that "delineates a coherent, frank, confident, and even ebullient poetic narrative" of a gay relationship. (2) "Live Oak" received another sustained critical treatment around the same time by Alan Helms, who found in the sequence not Parker's "gay manifesto" but instead a chronicle of repression and homophobia's power, and he generally saw the revision and dispersal of the "Live Oak" manuscript poems into the "Calamus" cluster as proof of the impossibility for Whitman of publishing the poems in their original version. (3) While Parker sees a narrative mostly of triumph in "Live Oak," even if it is a triumph that was never published, Helms finds one in which a homophobic nineteenth-century culture made it impossible for Whitman to have published or even to have acknowledged the existence of the original manuscript sequence.
Parker largely won this debate, if by winning we mean increased textual circulation: "Live Oak, with Moss" has appeared in every subsequent edition of the Norton Anthology of American Literature since the fourth in 1994, which Parker co-edited. It is the only manuscript sequence by Whitman in the selection, and it marks as well--as in the poems the Norton editors have repeatedly selected from "Calamus"--a rather unexamined emphasis on what is presented as the private confessional Whitman of, say, "Trickle Drops," over the political Whitman proclaiming the public consequences of comradeship: "Affection shall solve every one of the problems of freedom." (4)
Whichever side one chooses in this debate about Whitman's manuscripts and their published counterparts, though, there are two interpretive problems. The first is that Helms and Parker are reading at least partly anachronistically when they invoke a nineteenth-century social context that is homophobic in our terms. We possess clear evidence that Whitman's writings were not uniformly read this way. For example, Robert Scholnick has discussed in detail the often playful manner in which Whitman's same sex representations were taken among his compatriots at Pfaff's and in the pages of Vanity Fair. (5) Even among the conservative guardians of moral order, the Boston District Attorney in 1881--egged on by Anthony Comstock's New England Society for the Suppression of Vice--skipped right past the "Calamus" poems when scouring Leaves of Grass for objectionable passages he wanted excised in order to make the book morally palatable, though "Calamus" is obviously filled with evidence of same-sex affection and erotics: "For the one I love most lay sleeping by me under the same cover in the cool night, / In the stillness, in the autumn moonbeams, his face was inclined toward me, / And his arm lay lightly around my breast--And that night I was happy" (LG 1860, 358). (6) So these are two examples at opposite ends of a cultural continuum, from radical Bohemians to traditionalists, who seem not to notice or to care much about Whitman's same-sex representations. And the critical work on the mid-nineteenth century's only slowly-emerging classification of sexual identities, from scholars including David Halperin and Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick, suggests that a repressive regime directed at what will come to be understood as homosexual male identity was nascent and by no means categorical. Thus it is wise to use care when relying upon a version of a mid-century "closeted" Whitman for one's reading of Leaves of Grass, and the published "Calamus" poems themselves--whatever their relation to "Live Oak"--remain the best evidence against this view. (7)
However, I want to take as my point of departure a different interpretive assumption that Parker and Helms share, whatever their disagreements about the relative gay-love-story merits of the printed or manuscript poems. I want to concentrate on Helms and Parker's unexamined privileging of manuscripts as the place where selves and secrets--and in this dispensation, selves and secrets are always sexual--reveal themselves, especially when contrasted against the supposedly multiply-mediated figurations of public print. The counterclaim I'm making against this widely-held assumption about the essential, self-revealing authenticity of manuscript practice is founded upon, perhaps unexpectedly, the differences between dashes and hyphens, and hinges upon some of the tiniest marks Whitman made on the voluminous samples of his handwriting that we possess.
Dashes are in most cases easily identified in Whitman's handwriting as single long lines (see Figure 2). By way of comparison, his dashes are much more easily identified than Emily Dickinson's, as Figure 3 demonstrates. But Whitman's hyphens look more like what we think of as equal signs, and sometimes even like colons, because these marks are almost always doubled (see Figures 4 and 5). Whitman is quite consistent in his writing of these punctuation marks, which are frequently doubled even in the scribal documents recently unearthed from his time working as a clerk in the Attorney General's office between 1865 and 1873 (see Figure 6).
Why does Whitman double his hyphen lines when he writes by hand? The answer emerges in John Wilson's A Treatise on English Punctuation; Designed for Letter-Writers, Authors, Printers, and Correctors of the Press, the fifth edition of which was published in Boston in 1856. In part a guide to proofreading, this handbook demonstrates that nineteenth-century proofreaders utilize the mark of the double hyphen--what looks to us like an equal sign--when correcting a printed proof sheet (see Figures 7 and 8). (8) I suggest that Whitman's doubled hyphens signal the cohabitation of print and penmanship/manuscript practices when Whitman sets pen to paper. Of course, the doubled hyphen is written and therefore is not really print, but it is written in the engagement with print. Whitman writes the double hyphen as a proofreader reading print proof, even when reading and writing his own handwriting. This unexpected alignment between manuscript and print may well be the most prevalent coincidence across the whole Whitmanian corpus, and it possesses broad interpretive consequences.
The cohabitation of print and handwriting is intimately linked to another foundational overlap: the interconnectedness for Whitman between "composition," in the sense we use when we teach our students writing, and the nineteenth-century printing protocols of the compositor who sets type. The two definitions appear together in one of the reviews Whitman included at the back of the second edition of Leaves of Grass: "Can it be possible," this reviewer for the London Critic writes, "that its author intended this as a portion of a poem? Is it not more reasonable to suppose that Walt Whitman has been learning to write, and that the compositor has got hold of his copy-book?" (9) The social class horror that underwrites this critic's snarky disbelief--his anxiety that the newly literate are now writing and publishing--marks one paranoid version of this conjunction between composition and printing. I argue, however, that we see in Whitman's hyphen the productivity of this dual meaning of composition come to life. This notion of printed and handwritten coincidence and simultaneity, then, is the impetus behind "Manuprint," the now-forgotten neologism of my title (I'll return to this term's forgotten-ness at the end).
There is a great deal of evidence for identifying Whitman's writing practice with the composite term "manuprint," beginning with his own account of the compositional genesis of the first edition:
[B]efore the Leaves had ever been to the printer, I had them in half a dozen forms--larger, smaller, recast, outcast, taken apart, put together--viewing them from every point I knew--even at the last not putting them together and out with any idea that they must eternally remain unchanged. (10)
Virtually every word Whitman uses in this excerpt in which he is presumably describing the condition of Leaves of Grass as a manuscript--before, he says, it "had ever been to the printer"--draws upon the languages of the printing process: for example, "forms" refers to "a body of type, secured in a chase," and "cast" refers both to the calculating of manuscript pages to estimate their print equivalents, as well as to the casting of typefaces in molten metal. "Point" refers generally to punctuation, as well as to the metal pins that hold the sheet when printing the second side. (11) No wonder Scholnick writes that "for Whitman, having his poems set in type and then revising from typescript was very much part of the continuing creative process" (127). Whitman imagines his handwritten pages as somehow already set in forms, though these are recastable, resettable forms. This is a fluidity of print we usually think of as a feature of manuscripts, imagined through the vocabulary of print. Thus print does not function for Whitman as the apotheosis of manuscript, nor are print and manuscript binary opposites in the epistemological structures that govern his compositional practices--compositional, as I have begun to suggest, in every sense of the word.
This is why, in Scholnick's review of the "Live Oak"/"Calamus" dispute, he caps off his argument by calling attention to the hybrid nature of Whitman's compositional practices:
We cannot assume, as does Parker, that any change from manuscript to printed version is necessarily a falling off or a concession to an allegedly homophobic culture. Whitman's practice was to revise from typescript, and there is no evidence that he did not exercise total control over the third edition [of Leaves of Grass]. (113)
Here Scholnick recalibrates the relation between manuscript and print as complementary. Intriguingly, a number of "Live Oak" manuscripts themselves contain examples of the same double-hyphen, markers of their own insistent, incipient printedness even at the moment of their supposedly secretive inscription and their supposedly private opting out of the public disclosure (and embarrassment) of print (see "Live Oak, with Moss II," available on the Whitman Archive).
A related dynamic is at play in the Rome Brothers manuscript that is one of the very few pieces of evidence we possess of the first edition of Leaves of Grass nearing the print shop, as Ed Folsom has described (12) (see Figure 9). On this page, among other calculations, Whitman compares his manuscript pages to Shakespeare's printed pages, but not, as we might expect, in terms of casting off manuscript pages to determine their anticipated print page equivalents. Instead Whitman compares "1120 letters in page of Shakespeare's poems" to "1600 letters in one of my closely written MS pages like page 2." The comparison to Shakespeare's poems first of all reveals Whitman's sky-high ambitions, and reminds us how bitterly Emerson's refusal to call Leaves of Grass "poetry" in his July 21, 1855 letter must have stung. (13) But there is also a cross-comparison here in the implicit sense that for Whitman, not only do manuscript pages compare to--and are transformed into--printed pages through the wonders of math and print, but also that individual letters in the handwritten manuscript correspond to the pieces of type that add up to a printed page. Whitman is measuring his work in letters, and in letter forms.
Peter Stallybrass has shown that the advent of printing brought about an increase, rather than a decrease, in the demand for handwriting, since a great deal of the output of the printing press was in the form of printed blanks that needed to be filled in by hand. (14) This intersecting non-binary of simultaneously handwritten and printed words recurs in Whitman's compositional habits, as when Whitman describes his writing process: "I am always tempted to put in, take out, change. Though, having been a printer myself, I have what may be called an anticipatory eye--know pretty well as I write how a thing will turn up in the type--appear--take form" (WWC 5:390). Again, "form" here is potentially about what we would think of as poetic formalism--meter, rhythm, lineation, and the like--and also about printing forms in the press. (15) Whitman's is a way of seeing manuscript and print simultaneously, as demonstrated in three related manuprints about a commemorative dinner held for Whitman in Camden in 1889.
By comparing the first slip (Figure 10) containing Whitman's handwritten corrections to the one in Figure 11, it becomes clear that the printer carefully followed Whitman's instructions for changes. Sadly, the printer's work was to no avail, because Figure 11 also shows that for Whitman the process of composition--that is, of writing and revision--goes on right through the waystation called print, just as Scholnick suggests, such that two of the copies, presumably intended as souvenirs for attendees or correspondents, are identically amended with "My friends, though announced to give an address, there is no such intention." Each slip is thus a commemoration of the banquet that also materially commemorates the complicated print/handwriting amalgam that is Whitmanian manuprinting. Additionally, as Peter Stallybrass shows in his essay in this issue of WWQR, the composite printed/handwritten slips demonstrate the increasing value, sentimental and perhaps also monetary, attached to Whitman's autograph "corrections" at the end of his life.
Horace Traubel notes a similarly conjoined print-manuscript mode when Whitman reads proofs: "W. read some proof today. In reading proofs W. rarely consults his copy. Yet he seems by instinct to catch the printer's aberrations." Traubel then quotes Whitman: "I rely a good deal upon my general feeling about a piece when it comes back to me in type" (WWC 2:35). Both Traubel's and Whitman's terms emphasize that print comes first: it is the place of "instinct"; it is the location of "general feeling." Manuscript is the detour; "it comes back to me in type," Whitman says.
It is even sometimes the case that manuscript barely precedes print. There is a lengthy set of instructions written in Whitman's hand at the top of the printed slip for "Old-Age Recitatives" (Figure 12):
my notion is to put these as the two first pages in the number-the 2d page to be filled out say 2-3ds (or 3-4ths)--but sure to leave a little blank at bottom--If necessary for that, leave out one of the little pieces at bottom of 2d page copy--or if not enough to make a handsome two pages I will furnish more copy W W (I have had them put in type for my own convenience)
One takeaway from these directions is Whitman's printerly imagination, not hesitating to tell the printer and compositor their business, all of which he also, and utterly, takes to be his business, and making clear that he will gladly provide additional manuscript text "to make a handsome two pages." More material can be "furnished" as the printed form requires; here print drives composition, instead of--as the authorial story we tell ourselves about the relation between manuscript and print has long commonsensically assumed--vice versa. Not authorial inspiration, but printerly composition.
Whitman thinks through print and he sees, not only the manuscript, but the world and the people in it through the practices of the printshop. Outliving Emerson by a decade, Whitman had many opportunities to look back and revise his relation to him, usually from a perspective of titanic grandiosity: "As a man, a companion, an intimate, he was impeccable--a character of essences, elements," Whitman tells Horace Traubel on March 21, 1890. But why precisely--other than as evidence of the epistemological crux I am detailing--should the terms of his reappraisal of Emerson so fully partake of the language of the printing house?
Emerson was of course himself--he was not all types but one type--including all, but combining himself into one. He was not hail-fellow in the sense of... the old sailor... put in earliest years before the mast--roughing it in that line a life through--but he was a man, every inch of him--as I may say it again, using my old story,--he was a font of type--a genuine letter--only set into a new text [emphases added]. (WWC 6:334)
So here, in addition to learning that--newsflash--Emerson was not Melville, we hear what Whitman calls his "old story" in which the mechanisms of print, of "fonts" as both "sources" and as typefaces, alongside "types," "letters," "lines," and "texts," provide the defining characterological language, a kind of phrenology of the printing house. In this treatment of Emerson, the language of print is used as anterior to a notion of character, which word is also itself of course the language of print. (16)
In speaking of Whitman, we need to speak of this print epistemology as one that is present and activated not simply at the site of print, but, as this essay has shown, in Whitman's practices of handwriting and manuscript as well. Scholars, readers, and collectors are used to thinking of manuscripts as the site that brings us closer to the self: we are invested in hands and in penmanship. But Whitman's trained hands did more than hold a pen, as he recalled in the Brooklyn Daily Standard in 1862:
What compositor running his eye over these lines, but will easily realize the whole modus of that initiation?--the half eager, half bashful beginning--the awkward holding of the stick--the type-box,... --the thumb in the stick--the compositor's rule--the upper case almost out of reach--the lower case spread out handier before him--learning the boxes--...--the great 'e' box--the box for spaces right by the boy's breast--the 'a' box, 'i' box, 'o' box, and all the rest... the slow and laborious formation, type by type, of the first line--its unlucky bursting by the too nervous pressure of the thumb--... all this, I say, what jour. typo [journeyman typographer] cannot go back in his own experience, and easily realise? (17)
Reading brings back a muscle memory of what must be, for Whitman and his fellow compositors, the page's origin, not at the site of authorial inscription, but rather with the compositor setting type at the type box. Composing lines of type is, too, a kind of writing--just as my title "Manuprint" tries to recover--which deconstructs the presumed primacy of manuscripts for an author who not only held a pen but also set type, often interchangeably. (18)
The term "manuprint" is in fact a recovery: the word first appears in periodicals at the end of the nineteenth century, working out a language to describe the processes and products of a newfangled technology called a typewriter. (19) However, viewed in relation to Whitman's compositional habitus, the new device's commingling of manual dexterity and inked metal fonts was perhaps not quite as new as it may have seemed. Whitman was manuprinting long before the term was applied to the other ostensibly manual, compositional work of the typewriter, for which he had nothing but scorn: "It seems to me ridiculous--robs us of something: for my part I would as lief, or rather, have the worst from a man's hand than the best from a machine" (WWC 2:314). Following Jonathan Goldberg's analysis of the pen's mediation of the authorial hand, we might say that the typewriter differently attenuates the relation of the writer and the inscription. (20) It is only speculation, but Whitman may dismiss the typewriter in part because, in early typewriting, the writing-typist could not immediately see the textual output of the process; we might also speculate that the machine itself separated the hand and the text in a way that, for him, was not true either of the pen or the composing stick. (21) These technical aspects of the typewriter matter because Whitman ridicules a machine that makes invisible the labor of composition, and that also diminished, as Lisa Gitelman writes, "the relation that inscribing bears to authorial agency and textual evidence" (186). To the typewriter, Whitman-the-manuprinter--interpellated simultaneously within the regimes of the pen and the press, and engaged across his long writing life in the conjoined imperatives of composition--says simply, unequivocally no. (22)
My thanks to Harriet Lightman, Research Librarian at Northwestern, for her assistance tracking down nineteenth-century proofreading manuals; to Lynn Berg and Daniel Smith of The Styberg Library, for last-minute help with reproductions; to Lynne Farrington and John Pollack, for the invitation to participate in the "Whitman at 200: Looking Back, Looking Forward" Symposium at the University of Pennsylvania, where this paper was first presented; to Matt Cohen and Nicole Gray, for sharing with me a not-yet-available hoard of Whitman's manuprints; to Peter Stallybrass, for his encouragement of this project; and to Margreta de Grazia, for her generous reading of an early draft.
(1) Epigraph quoted in Friedrich A. Kittler, Gramophone, Film, Typewriter. Translated, with an Introduction, by Geoffrey Winthrop-Young and Michael Wutz (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1999), 200.
(2) Hershel Parker, "The Real 'Live Oak, with Moss': Straight Talk About Whitman's 'Gay Manifesto,'" Nineteenth-Century Literature 51 (September 1996), 155.
(3) Alan Helms, "Whitman's 'Live Oak with Moss,'" in Robert K. Martin, ed., The Continuing Presence of Walt Whitman: The Life After the Life (Iowa City: University Of Iowa Press, 1992), 185-205. I discuss the Boston suppression episode in my Reconstituting the American Renaissance: Emerson, Whitman, and the Politics of Representation (Durham: Duke University Press, 2003), 175-77.
(4) In the latest, ninth edition of the Norton Anthology of American Literature (2017); the whole of the "Calamus" cluster is represented by three "private" poems: "Whoever You Are Holding Me Now in Hand," "Trickle Drops," and "Here the Frailest Leaves of Me." Quotation from "Calamus No. 5," Leaves of Grass (Boston: Thayer and Eldridge, 1860-61), 349. Available on the Walt Whitman Archive (www.Whitmanarchive.org).
(5) Robert Scholnick, "The Texts and Contexts of 'Calamus': Did Whitman Censor Himself in 1860?," Walt Whitman Quarterly Review 21 (Winter/Spring 2004), 109-130.
(6) Scholnick reads closely the explicitness and openness of "Calamus" (115-124).
(7) Betsy Erkkila contests the Parker/Helms readings both by finding in "Live Oak" "no clear narrative progression" ("the poems... move paratactically, by juxtaposition and association rather than by any clear, logical, or linear development" ), and by warning against the imposition of twentieth-century sex categories on nineteenth-century representations (Walt Whitman's Songs of Male Intimacy and Love: "Live Oak, with Moss" and "Calamus" [Iowa City: University of Iowa Press, 2011], 102). See also Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick, Epistemology of the Closet (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1990); David M. Halperin, How to Do the History of Homosexuality (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2002); and Christopher Looby, "The Literariness of Sexuality: or, How to Do the (Literary) History of (American) Sexuality," American Literary History 25 (2013), 841-854.
(8) John Wilson, A Treatise on English Punctuation; Designed for Letter-Writers, Authors, Printers, and Correctors of the Press; and for The Use of Schools and Academies. With an Appendix, Containing Rules on the Use of Capitals, A List of Abbreviations, Hints on the Preparation of Copy and on Proof-reading, Specimen of Proof-Sheet, Etc. 5th edition (Boston: Crosby, Nichols, and Company, 1856).
(9) Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass (Brooklyn, 1856), 376. Available on the Walt Whitman Archive.
(10) Horace Traubel, With Walt Whitman in Camden, 8:351. Available on the Walt Whitman Archive. Hereafter, WWC.
(11) These definitions are from the Oxford English Dictionary, including "chase": "the quadrangular iron frame in which the composed type for a page or sheet is arranged in columns or pages, and 'locked up' by the quoins or wedges, so as to be placed in the press." See also Charles Thomas Jacobi, The Printers' Vocabulary; A Collection of some 2500 Technical Terms, Phrases, Abbreviations, and Other Expressions Mostly Relating to Letterpress Printing, Many of which have been in use Since the Time of Caxton (1888; rpt. Detroit: Gale Research Co., 1969).
(12) Ed Folsom, Whitman Making Books / Books Making Whitman: A Catalog and Commentary (Iowa City: Obermann Center for Advanced Studies, 2005), 9-10. See also Folsom and Kenneth M. Price, Re-scripting Walt Whitman: An Introduction to His Life and Work (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2005), 24.
(13) On Emerson's letter to Whitman, see my Reconstituting the American Renaissance, Chapter 2. Whitman publishes this letter in the second edition of Leaves with a lengthy public response.
(14) Peter Stallybrass, "Printing and the Manuscript Revolution," Explorations in Communication and History, Barbie Zelizer, ed., (New York: Routledge, 2008), pp. 111-18: "[Printing's] most radical effect was its incitement to writing by hand" (111).
(15) From the Oxford English Dictionary for "form": "A body of type, secured in a chase, for printing at one impression."
(16) From the Oxford English Dictionary for "character": "Any sign or symbol used in writing or printing."
(17) Whitman, "Brooklyniana, No. 6," Brooklyn Daily Standard, (January 11, 1862), Walt Whitman Archive ID: per.00222. Oxford English Dictionary defines "typo" as "A typographer, a printer; specifically, a compositor."
(18) Gitelman recounts the case of Mark Twain, whom we would today call an early adopter: "In private Twain compared typing to typesetting, with which he was greatly familiar. It reminded him... of a typesetter they had known, who 'used to set up articles at the case without previously putting them in the form of manuscript.' Twain's admiration for this typesetter, who composed as he composed (who set type as he thought up his article), resembled his admiration for the machine, which seemed to require the same thing" (Lisa Gitelman, Scripts, Grooves, and Writing Machines: Representing Technology in the Edison Era [Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1999], 204-205).
(19) See, for example, The Writer [Boston] 3 (May 1889): "Thomas Seymour Denton has coined the word 'manuprint,' noun and adjective, to describe the work of a typewriter. He calls a typewritten manuscript 'a manuprint,' and the pages are designated as 'manuprint page 1, 2, 3, 4,' etc" (120). Cf. The Student's Journal Devoted to Graham's Standard Phonography, 27 (April, 1898), 3: "Dr. Francis A. March of Lafayette College... suggests to us the coinage or adoption of the word manuprint in place of 'typewriting.' He remarks that 'it contrasts well with manuscript, and would give good derivatives.'" On the relationship between typewriting and phonography as configured in the name of this latter journal, see Gitelman: "The typewriter and phonograph were partners for a time: the local phonograph companies leased their dictation machines to sit on desks beside typewriters; the former to record and the latter to transcribe. Both arose from the same climate of representation, the same urges to inscribe lived experience, and similar assumptions about language and machines" (188).
(20) "The hand is an ideological formation; the natural hand is socially produced" (Jonathan Goldberg, Writing Matter: From the Hands of the English Renaissance [Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1990], 96).
(21) "None of the models prior to Underwood's great innovation of 1897 allowed immediate visual control over the output. In order to read the typed text, one had to lift shutters on the Remington model, whereas with Malling Hansen's... the semicircular arrangement of the keys itself prevented a view of the paper" (Kittler 203). Cf. Gitelman, who notes some of the marketing confusion around various typewriter manufacturers' claims about "visibility" (205-207).
(22) Whitman expounds on the hands-on nature of his relation to writing and to books when Traubel asks him "Was it just the thing for authors to market their own books? 'I used to have trouble with myself about the dignity of authors--whether it comported well with the rest of him that an author should peddle his own books. I got bravely over all doubts on that point. My theory is that the author might be the maker even of the body of his book--set the type, print the book on a press, put a cover on it, all with his own hands: learning his trade from A to Z--all there is of it. The literary craftsman should not be so helpless with his hands'" (WWC 2:479-480). Kittler summarizes what may underlie Whitman's discomfort: "industrialization simultaneously nullified handwriting and hand-based work" (186-7).
Northwestern University, firstname.lastname@example.org
Grossman, Jay. "Manuprint." Walt Whitman Quarterly Review 37 (2019), 46-65. https://doi.org/10.13008/0737-0679.2359
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|Publication:||Walt Whitman Quarterly Review|
|Date:||Jun 22, 2019|
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