Paul Beatty & Walt Whitman

I'm sure I've talked about him before, but I'm doing Slumberland this week in class so I've been thinking about him again. He's a pretty amazing writer. The first time I covered him was about 6 years ago. Someone loaned me "White Boy Shuffle" claiming I "had to read it... it's just sooo good." Everyone says that (I'm saying it right now), so I don't usually get around to all the books that come to me that way. When I finally did get to it, I realized, to my shock, that he was right. I was preparing it in my office one morning when Tracy, a former colleague poked her head in and asked what I was doing. I showed her the book and she responded w/ "Oh, you're teaching Paul's book!" Right, Paul... you're on a first name basis with him. Sure. Well, as it turns out, she was. She traveled Europe w/ him for 2 months in the early '90s on some sort of poetry reading tour.

Now, I'm at a Nicola's event the other night @ the library for Louis Rodriguez, a poet from L.A. During the down time, I was prepping for my class & he asked what I was reading. I showed him, & he too responded w/ "Oh, you're reading Paul's book!" I immediately thought of Tracy's response 6 years earlier and was shocked by the similarity. I told him about my other job & he went on to say that he traveled Europe w/ Paul in the early '90s on some sort of poetry tour. It turns out that he also knows Tracy. What a weird coincidence. There were 6 people on that tour, one of whom I teach all the time and 2 of whom I met basically because of the other one.

I didn't really log in here today to talk about that though. I really logged in to say that I've been having a pretty rough couple weeks. Then, as I was reading this week, I came across this fantastic passage I want to share because it just brightened everything up so nicely. The main character is asked by the woman w/ whom he's been sleeping if he loves her. Here's his response:

"I'd never been in love. I'd always though love was like reading Leaves of Grass in a crowded Westside park on a sunny Tuesday afternoon, having to suppress the urge, with each giddy turn of the page to share your joy with the surrounding world. By "sharing" I don't mean quoting Whitman's rhythm-machine poetics to a group of strangers waiting for auditions to be posted at the Screen Actors Guild, but wanting to stand up and scream, 'I'm reading Walt Whitman you joyless, shallow, walking-the-dog-by-carrying-the-dog, casting-couch-wrinkles-imprinted-in-your-ass, associate-producers'-pubic-hairs-on-your-tounge, designer-perambulator-pushing-the-baby-you-and-your-Bel-Air-trophy-wife-had-by-inserting-someone-else's-sperm-bank-jizz-in-a-surrogate-mother's-uterus-because-you-and-your-sugar-daddy-were-too-busy-with-your-nonexistent-careers-to-fuck, no-day-job-having California Aryan Assholes! I'm reading Whitman! Fuck your purebreed pedigreed Russian Wolfhound! Fuck your WASP infant with the Hebrew name and West Indian nanny! Fuck your Norwegian au pair who's not as hot looking as you thought she'd be! I'm reading Whitman, expanding my mind and melding with the universe! What have you done today? It's ten in the morning, do you know where your coke dealer is? Have you looked at the leaves of grass? No? I didn't think so!' That's what I thought love would be like. Reading Whitman and fighting the urge to express your aesthetic superiority.'"

That's pretty amazing, and transcribing it was a pain in my ass, so I hope you enjoyed it.