From Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman:

When I read the book, the biography famous,
And is this then (said I) what the author calls a man's life?
And so will some one when I am dead and gone write my life?
(As if any man really knew aught of my life,
Why even I myself often think know little or nothing of my real life,
Only a few hints, and few diffused faint clews and indirections I seek for my own use to trace out here.)

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