Dear Olivia,

The other day you asked me if I had met with great authors. If I look back on my career, I met with
very few extra-ordinary ones. Of course, there were plenty of mediocre writers, but it would be false
to say that all of them were exceptional. No, there weren’t many exceptional ones. Maybe three or
four. But those men will be remembered, unlike me. No one will remember the critic, who wrote
fierce reviews and which authors should fall or rise. I had power. I was the lord of life and death in a
way. Hargh, I shouldn’t let self-pity deceive me. I want to write, write about that particular poet you
all know the name of.

Nobody knew him before 1855. He was also a nobody at the time, but that nobody was eager to
write. He came from Long Island, if I remember correctly, from a large Quaker family. He had a special
connection with religion. I wouldn’t have called him religious, but he had some kind of faith. He
believed in a greater power, in God, but not like other believers. During his early career, he worked in
a library, he worked for printers and newspapers, so we can say that literature and writing always
surrounded him. No wonder he decided to write.

After 1855, everything changed. He published his first collection of poems under the name Leaves of
Grass. That madman was crazy enough to finance the whole project all by himself. Although at that
time nobody knew who the author was, he had the audacity to publish the first edition without his
name. When I heard that, I thought, What a coward! Nobody bought that first edition and I can not
stress this enough. I was one of the nobodies. I found it interesting. At first, it was a complete
financial disaster. We thought that whoever that young gentleman might be, his career must have
ended right before the start. Like a young star that died before he could brightly shine. The reviews
were written by cutthroat critics and they did not show any mercy. Most of them found it offensive, I
heard a critic threw the whole book on fire. Maybe the financial loss wouldn’t have stopped me from
writing, but those reviews might have done the trick. When I read those, I thought maybe I was
wrong, maybe the mysterious writer had no talent at all. Then I heard the opinion of Emerson. Yes,
Ralph Waldo Emerson. He didn’t share his opinion publicly, but word got around somehow, so we all
knew what the great Emerson thought of this controversial book. I quote: „I find it the most
extraordinary piece of wit and wisdom that America has yet contributed”. Everyone was shocked,
including me. I decided that I had to read Leaves of Grass again, only this time I decided to pay more
attention, which was wise of me. After finishing it for the second time, I couldn’t help but write a
positive review. I considered it a classic, I put the author next to Shakespeare and Dante.

In 1868, I edited a collection of his poems, which were mostly selected from Leaves of Grass.
Customers bought it like candy, everyone was perfectly satisfied with my work. Then a letter arrived
from Frederick S. Ellis and it turned out the author referred to my edition as „ a horrible
dismemberment of my book”. I was completely shocked. The man who had my utmost respect states
so harsh opinion. Looking back, it is kind of funny because my edition provided a major boost to his
reputation. Not that I want to praise myself. I had never met with the author before, but a change in
that matter was required.

I wanted to meet with this man, I wanted to talk with him, hear his thoughts, understand his feelings.
He was just so unique and most of his works didn’t make any sense to me, although I was aware of
the fact that they were exceptional. I relentlessly wanted to know how this genius thinks, it intrigued
me. I knew that sooner or later our paths would cross each other. I was right. I am not able to recall
the event we both attended. Maybe it was a celebration. But we met there, and I got my talk that
enlightened me.
We met at the birthday party of someone, it is a shame that I can’t recall whose birthday that was.
The writer didn’t seem to enjoy the event, he chose complete solitude. At one point, he decided to
get up from his chair and left.

Where are you going? – I asked.

I would like to take a little stroll. – he replied.

I immediately realised that this was my opportunity to have a discussion with him.

Aren’t you that editor who published a collection of my poems this year? – he asked.

I froze.

Yes, that would be me- I confessed.

I was looking forward to meeting you. – he said.

Then I take it as a yes. – I replied and I joined him.

So what was your issue with my edition? – I started the conversation.

You had the great ability to pick mostly my worst poems that do not reflect my ideas and beliefs.

What are these?

I believe in a higher power, unlike most people. I am not daring to say that there isn’t a God, but in
my view he isn’t like what most believers think. I think that this power is all around us, is ubiquitous.
It can be found in every living entity, every man, woman and child, in every animal, in every plant.

Interesting idea – I declared.

But you also think that higher power exists like everyone else, don’t you?

Of course, I just perceive it differently.

You are a genius, maybe you see that matter more clearly. – I said.

I am no genius. I am like everyone else. If you ask me, everyone is equal there are no lesser or better
people. We all are the subjects of Mother Nature and our souls are connected to her. I found this
beautiful. I can find beauty in everything because of the equality and because of nature.

You sound a bit odd – I said.

Maybe I am odd – he replied.

Excuse me, but I must go home now.

So, my dear daughter, that was my meeting with Walt Whitman. Later I advocated his work I became
a champion of his poetry. I still think that he is the greatest poet of America.

Hope you are well. Please write me as soon as you can.

Yours truly,

Your Father, William Michael Rosetti