A poem by Walt Whitman.

   A noiseless patient spider,
   I mark'd where on a little promontory it stood isolated,
   Mark'd how to explore the vacant, vast surrounding,
   It launched forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself.
   Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.

   And you O my soul where you stand,
   Surrounded, detatched, in measureless oceans of space,
   Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them.
   Till the bridge you will need be form'd, till the ductile anchor hold,
   Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul.


I just read this article where various career writers suggest that we don't read enough in the internet age. That our culture is becoming shallow and snarky.

It got me thinking about how exhiliarating reading used to feel when I was younger, and all that mysterious grandeur of going to the library.

Oh well. Enjoy my next post, "Ant-Man likes Ms. Marvel's Butt."

Permalink