As part of my New Year’s resolution I have been reading one poem from Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass every day. This one resonated with me as an author and psychotherapist interested in themes of identity:
When I Read The Book
When I read the book, the biography famous,
And is this then (said I) what the author calls a man’s life?
And so will some one when I am dead and gone write my life?
(As if any man really knew aught of my life,
Why even I myself I often think know little or nothing of my real life,
Only a few hints, a few diffused faint clews and indirections
I seek for my own use to trace out here.)