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.)