Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass
Okay, I get it now. Reading Ulysses earlier this year was probably the missing piece, because there's something modernist in its endless lists and its flow that eventually becomes that more well-known form. But the equation for enjoyment itself is pretty simple:
x + y = satisfaction in reading Whitman
where x is "have ever spent time outside appreciating the varied and sublime faces of nature" and y is "have ever believed, even for a fleeting moment, in America as an Idea".
Ultimately, I don't think I will quite love it, for the typical modernist reasons that the constant reference back to what it is doing in the text itself means it can't quite be loved, only appreciated.
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