The Silent Music of the Mind: Remembering Oliver Sacks

Crossing Brooklyn Ferry: Astrophysicist

Janna Levin Reads Walt Whitman’s
Stunning Serenade to Our Interlaced
Lives Across Space and Time
“It avails not, time nor place… What is it then between
us?… It is not upon you alone the dark patches fall, the
dark threw its patches down upon me also.”
By Maria Popova

Crossing Brooklyn Ferry: Astrophysicist Janna Levin Reads Walt Whitman’s Stunning
Serenade to Our Interlaced Lives Across Space and Time

How few artists are not merely the sensemaking vessel for the tumult of their times, not
even the deck railing of assurance onto which the passengers steady themselves, but the
horizon that remains for other ships long after this one has reached safe harbor, or has
sunk — the horizon whose steadfast line orients generation after generation, yet goes on
shifting as each epoch advances toward new vistas of truth and possibility.

Walt Whitman (May 31, 1819–March 26, 1892) was among those rare few. The century
and a half between his time and ours has been scarred by pandemics and
pandemoniums, hallowed by staggering triumphs of the humanistic, scientific, and
artistic imagination. We made Earth less habitable with two World Wars and discovered
4,000 potentially habitable worlds outside the Solar System. We gave all races and
genders the ballot, and invented new ways of revoking human dignity and belonging.
We beheld the structure of life in a double helix and the shape of civilizational shame in
a mushroom cloud. We heard Bob Dylan, Nina Simone, and the sound of spacetime.
But the most remarkable thing about it all, the most human and humanizing thing, is the
awareness of this we as atomized into millions of individual I’s who have lived and
loved and lost and made art and music and mathematics through it all.

Art by Lia Halloran for The Universe in Verse. Available as a print.

Whitman understood and celebrated this intricate tessellation of being, not only across
society — “every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you” — but across space
and time, nowhere more splendidly than in his sweeping, horizonless masterpiece
“Crossing Brooklyn Ferry” — a poem that opens up a liminal space where past, present,
and future tunnel into one another, a cave of forgotten and remembered dreams that
invites you to press your outstretched living fingers into the palm-print of the dead, into
Whitman’s generous open hand, and in doing so effects, to borrow Iris Murdoch’s
marvelous phrase, “and occasion for unselfing.”
At a special miniature edition of The Universe in Verse on Governors Island, devoted to
Whitman’s enchantment with science, astrophysicist Janna Levin — an enchantress of
poetry, a writer of uncommonly poetic prose, and co-founder of the Whitman-inspired
endeavor to build New York’s first public observatory — reanimated an excerpt from
“Crossing Brooklyn Ferry” in a gorgeous reading emanating the elusive elemental truth
Whitman so elegantly makes graspable in the poem.

from “CROSSING BROOKLYN FERRY”

by Walt Whitman

Flood-tide below me! I see you face to face!

Clouds of the west — sun there half an hour high — I see you also face to face.

Crowds of men and women attired in the usual costumes, how curious you are to me!
On the ferry-boats the hundreds and hundreds that cross, returning home, are more
curious to me than you suppose,
And you that shall cross from shore to shore years hence are more to me, and more in
my meditations, than you might suppose.

The impalpable sustenance of me from all things at all hours of the day,
The simple, compact, well-join’d scheme, myself disintegrated, every one disintegrated
yet part of the scheme,
The similitudes of the past and those of the future.

[…]

Others will enter the gates of the ferry and cross from shore to shore,
Others will watch the run of the flood-tide,
Others will see the shipping of Manhattan north and west, and the heights of Brooklyn
to the south and east,
Others will see the islands large and small;
Fifty years hence, others will see them as they cross, the sun half an hour high,
A hundred years hence, or ever so many hundred years hence, others will see them,
Will enjoy the sunset, the pouring-in of the flood-tide, the falling-back to the sea of the
ebb-tide.

It avails not, time nor place — distance avails not,

I am with you, you men and women of a generation, or ever so many generations hence,
Just as you feel when you look on the river and sky, so I felt,
Just as any of you is one of a living crowd, I was one of a crowd,
Just as you are refresh’d by the gladness of the river and the bright flow, I was
refresh’d,
Just as you stand and lean on the rail, yet hurry with the swift current, I stood yet was
hurried.

[…]

What is it then between us?

What is the count of the scores or hundreds of years between us?
Whatever it is, it avails not — distance avails not, and place avails not,
I too lived, Brooklyn of ample hills was mine,
I too walk’d the streets of Manhattan island, and bathed in the waters around it,
I too felt the curious abrupt questionings stir within me

[…]

It is not upon you alone the dark patches fall,

The dark threw its patches down upon me also,
The best I had done seem’d to me blank and suspicious,
My great thoughts as I supposed them, were they not in reality meagre?
Nor is it you alone who know what it is to be evil,
I am he who knew what it was to be evil,
I too knitted the old knot of contrariety,
Blabb’d, blush’d, resented, lied, stole, grudg’d,
Had guile, anger, lust, hot wishes I dared not speak,
Was wayward, vain, greedy, shallow, sly, cowardly, malignant,
The wolf, the snake, the hog, not wanting in me,
The cheating look, the frivolous word, the adulterous wish, not wanting,
Refusals, hates, postponements, meanness, laziness, none of these wanting,
Was one with the rest, the days and haps of the rest,
Was call’d by my nighest name by clear loud voices of young men as they saw me
approaching or passing,
Felt their arms on my neck as I stood, or the negligent leaning of their flesh against me
as I sat,
Saw many I loved in the street or ferry-boat or public assembly, yet never told them a
word,
Lived the same life with the rest, the same old laughing, gnawing, sleeping,

Play’d the part that still looks back on the actor or actress,
The same old role, the role that is what we make it, as great as we like,
Or as small as we like, or both great and small.

For other highlights from the first three years of The Universe in Verse, as we labor on
a virtual show amid the strangeness of this de-atomized season of body and spirit, savor
Levin reading “A Brave and Startling Truth” by Maya Angelou, “Planetarium” by
Adrienne Rich, Amanda Palmer reading Neil Gaiman’s tribute to Rachel Carson and his
feminist poem about the history of science, Marie Howe reading her tribute to Stephen
Hawking, Regina Spektor reading “Theories of Everything” by Rebecca Elson, and Neri
Oxman reading Whitman, then revisit Whitman on optimism as a mighty force of
resistance, women’s centrality to democracy, how to keep criticism from sinking your
soul, and what makes life worth living.

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