Han.
Carl Sandburg
(Continued from page S)
Arts and Letters does not consider pho
tography an art, and therefore has not be
stowed membership on Edward Steichen,
the great American photographer and a
man whom Carl considers one of the im
portant influences in his life.
"Photography not an art? Why, Steph
en's 'Family of Man' is a great epic poem,
which has been seen by millions of people
all over the world ... a poem which re
quires no translation and can be under
stood by illiterates."
Carl has publicly expressed his dislike
for the obscurity of much contemporary
poetry. "Steichen says I shouldn't be so
critical, and he's probably right," laughed
Carl. "After all, I've written poems myself
that I don't understand."
Carl's appearance a few years ago on a
television program commemorating Lin
coln's birthday was brilliant. Sandburg's
reading of his own work is matchless. His
great voice echoes the most subtle nuances
of meaning ironic, comic, tragic. After
the program, the producer congratulated
Carl on his superb performance and then
added, "We've just had a telegram from
Robert Frost demanding equal time!"
Only one with a special affinity for chil
dren could have written Rootabaga Stories.
Rarely have I seen a man to whom children
were so magnetically drawn. One of my
daughters, Kim, now 11, took her first baby
steps to go to his arms.
On one of his visits he was wearing
shoes that had zippers instead of laces.
Immediately after his arrival he demon
strated his ability to take the shoes off or
put them on by manipulating the zipper
with the toe of his other foot. It made an
indelible impression on Kathlin, my two-year-old,
and both she and Carl enjoyed
the ritual of repeated demonstrations each
day that he was with us.
I'VE heard several versions of the classic
apocryphal Sandburg story, but the one
that I like the best was told to me by Stein
beck in 1954. It seems that several of
Carl's newspaer cronies devised an elab
orate practical joke to play on him during
the days when he was writing his monu
mental biography of Lincoln and had com
pletely given himself over to his subject.
They engaged an actor, who for many
years had portrayed Lincoln on the stage,
to encounter Sandburg on one of his lone
early-morning walks.
This is the way the actor described the
meeting: "I had applied the full make-iip,
the beard, the mole above and to the right
of the corner of my mouth, and gotten
dressed in the characteristic Lincoln long
coat, stovepipe hat, roll-pressed trousers,
gaiters. It was still dark and quite foggy.
Wit just at the time and the place that I
was told I would meet Mr. Sandburg, I
saw a shape emerge from the fog. As it
drew closer, I recognized that it was in-
The white-thatched poet likes to play the
guitar and sing to his own accompaniment.
deed Mr. Sandburg. I said nothing, just
continued walking toward him. As we
came abreast, Mr. Sandburg neither al
tered his pace nor seemed surprised. He
simply tipped his hat, said, 'Good morning,
Mr. President,' and continued on."
When an envelope from Carl comes in
my mail, it may contain a short note or
thoughtful comment on some matter of
concern to both of us, or it may enclose
a few delightful unpublished poems per
haps some of his playful poems called
simply "Bugs" or "Rata."
Once he sent a dozen or so yellowed
pages clipped from a magazine dated be
fore the turn of the century, pages that he
had kept in his files all these years and that
he now wanted me to have for their in
spirational content. Alongside the text, in
Carl's handwriting, were his own com
ments, relating the printed text to conver
sations that we had had.
I spoke TO carl the day before I was to
leave for a tour of the U.S.S.R., and he
advised me to keep a journal. "Look hard,
and try and see everything you can without
prejudice. We've got to learn to live with
those people. The Russians are going to be
with us for a long, long time."
The next year, Carl himself visited the
Soviet Union, and he was struck by the air
of conspiracy. "There is more secret know
ledge than known knowledge there!"
Asked if it is true that Russian women
engage in types of manual labor for which
only men would be hired in the U.S.A., he
answered: "It is true that you see women
doing such work, but I feel less sorry for
the women of Russia than I do for some
of those in this country who spend so much
of their time being psychoanalyzed!"
Sandburg's eighties are vintage years.
He has a new volume of poems being pub
lished today called Honey and Salt, and it
has the gravity and the joy, the enthusi
asm and the import that are characteristic
of the man and his work. And the work
goes on, promising more riches.
An old friend of Carl's, visiting him in
Flat Rock, N. C, was being shown the
countryside. "That," indicated Sandburg,
"is the highest point in the Great Smoky
Mountains."
"No, Carl," his friend disagreed, "you
are the highest point in the Great Smoky
Mountains."
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