The Bridge Crane, Hart
(Full name Harold Hart Crane) American poet and essayist.
Although he left only a small body of work, Crane is important as a lyric poet in the tradition of the romantic visionary as exemplified by such other poets as William Blake, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Charles Baudelaire, and Walt Whitman. Crane's greatest contribution to this tradition is his epic poem The Bridge (1930), in which he attempted to delineate a mythic vision of the American experience through his primary symbol, the Brooklyn Bridge, an engineering marvel of the time that many people considered to represent the promise of America.
Born in Garrettsville, Ohio, Crane was the only child of a wealthy candy manufacturer. His mother had a history of mental illness, and in 1908, when she entered a sanatorium to recover from a nervous breakdown, Crane was sent to Cleveland to live with his maternal grandmother. There he enrolled in East High School in 1914, undertaking a program that emphasized English literature and composition, mathematics, and foreign languages. While his formal education was frequently disrupted by family conflicts and long vacations with relatives, Crane pursued a course of independent reading that included classic literature as well as contemporary avant-garde literary journals, and at this time he began writing poetry. After the separation of his parents in 1916, he moved to New York City, originally to study with a tutor to prepare for entrance into Columbia University. Instead, Crane wrote poems that were published in New York magazines during the next few years and worked in advertising and at various other jobs. Crane's first major poem, "The Marriage of Helen and Faustus," was published in 1923, and during this year he began work on The Bridge. In 1925 Crane was able to further pursue his literary endeavors as a result of a grant from Otto Kahn, a financier and patron of the arts. Crane's first collection of poetry, White Buildings, was published the following year, and he completed a substantial portion of The Bridge—an undertaking that was to preoccupy him for seven years—while living at his grandmother's plantation on the Isle of Pines near Cuba. Using an inheritance from his grandmother's estate, Crane traveled to Paris in 1929. There he met Harry and Caresse Crosby, the owners of the Black Sun Press, which published the first edition of The Bridge the following year. After Crane was awarded a Guggenheim Fellowship in 1931, he moved to Mexico City but produced little writing there that was to his satisfaction. Feeling alienated from friends and family and convinced his poetic abilities were waning, Crane began indulging in alcohol and homosexual exploits on a regular basis. In April of 1932, while returning to New York City on a ship, Crane jumped overboard after a night of heavy drinking, and his body was never recovered.
Crane originally conceived of The Bridge as a poem about equal in length to his "The Marriage of Helen and Faustus," and intended it to be published in his first volume of poetry. But, returning to it repeatedly over seven years, Crane gradually expanded the scope and themes of the poem until it grew to its final epic length. Written as a refutation of the pessimism he found in T. S. Eliot's epic modernist poem The Waste Land, The Bridge is intended to create an American mythology—in the spirit of Ralph Waldo Emerson and Walt Whitman—built around its central image, the Brooklyn Bridge. Organized into eight major sections-"Ave Maria," "Powhatan's Daughter," "Cutty Sark," "Cape Halteras," "Three Songs," "Quaker Hill," "The Tunnel," and "Atlantis"—as well as an opening "Proem" to the Brooklyn Bridge, the poem contains references to and meditations on historical and fictional figures significant to the founding and development of America, including Christopher Columbus, Pocahontas, the Wright brothers, and Rip Van Winkle. But despite Crane's hope of creating an epic vision for the country, The Bridge is ultimately considered to be the portrayal of a spiritualquest for a new mythic vision, and thus its major theme is the quest itself and the necessity for an intense examination of experience by every individual. Whether or not the quest succeeds in providing a new vision is of secondary importance. Joseph Miller wrote of The Bridge: "Brooklyn Bridge itself, the controlling symbol of the poem, with which it begins and ends, is at the same time a historical object, a work of art, a product of modern technology, and a perfect metaphor for the desire, the spiritual ambitions, and the unifying and reconciling aspirations of American idealism."
Upon publication, The Bridge was met with limited praise and much confusion from critics. While some commentators, especially those associated with the New Criticism movement, recognized noteworthy individual passages, most found the poem lacking in formal unity or logical exposition and deemed its symbolic structure incoherent and poorly executed. Others asserted that Crane's limited formal education resulted in social analysis and criticism that display a deficient knowledge of the American past. Since the 1960s, however, critics have reassessed the poem. While most agree that as an epic expression of American history and an affirmative myth of American experience the poem fails, many have argued that The Bridge succeeds admirably as the depiction of the spiritual quest in America and is a major achievement in many of its sections as well as an important contribution to American literature.
SOURCE: An introduction to The Bridge: A Poem by Hart Crane, Liveright, 1933, pp. xvii-xxxvi.
[In the following essay, Frank discusses the ways in which Crane represents the quintessential poet of modern America.]
Agrarian America had a common culture, which was both the fruit and the carrier of what I have called elsewhere "the great tradition" [The Re-discovery of America]. This tradition rose in the Mediterranean world with the will of Egypt, Israel and Greece, to recreate the individual and the group in the image of values called divine. The same will established Catholic Europe, and when it failed (producing nonetheless what came to be the national European cultures), the great tradition survived. It survived in the Europe of Renaissance, Reformation, Revolution. With the Puritans, it was formally transplanted to the North American seaboard. Roger Williams, Thomas Hooker, Jonathan Edwards; later, in a more narrow sense, Jefferson, Madison, Adams, carried on the great tradition, with the same tools, on the same intellectual and economic terms, that had been brought from Europe and that had failed in Europe. It was transplanted, it was not transfigured. But before the final defeat of its Puritan avatar—a defeat ensured by the disappearance of our agrarian economy, the great tradition had borne fruit in two general forms. The first was the ideological art of what Lewis Mumford calls the Golden Day: a prophetic art of poets so diverse as Emerson, Thoreau, Poe, whose vision was one of Possibility and whose doom, since its premise was a disappearing world, was to remain suspended in the thin air of aspiration. The second was within the lives of the common people. Acceptance of the ideal of the great tradition had its effect upon their character; and this humbler achievement is recorded, perhaps finally, in the poems of Robert Frost. Frost's art, unlike Whitman's or Melville's, is one of Probability. It gives us not a vision, but persons. They are frustrated, poor, often mad. They face grimly their resurgent hills, knowing the failure of their lives to enact the beauty of their great tradition. Yet their dwelling within it for many generations, their acceptance of its will for their own, has given them even in defeat a fibre of strength, a smoldering spark of victory; and it is this in the verse of Frost that makes it poetry of a high order.
Frost's record (North of Boston, 1914; Mountain Interval, 1916) was already madewhen the United States entered the War; and the War brought final ruin to the American culture of "free" individuals living for the most part on farms, whose beauty Frost recorded. The tradition which had tempered the persons in Frost's poems had already, before the Civil War, sung its last high Word in the old terms that were valid from Plato to Fichte. And this too was fitting, for the Civil War prepared the doom which the World War completed, of our agrarian class-culture. But the great tradition, unbroken from Hermes Trismegistus and Moses, does not die. In a society transfigured by new scientific and economic forces, it too must be transfigured. The literature and philosophy of the past hundred years reveal many efforts at this transfiguration: in this common purpose, Marx and Nietzsche are brothers. The poetry of Whitman was still founded on the substances of the old order. The poetry of Hart Crane is a deliberate continuance of the great tradition in terms of our industrialized world.
If we bear in mind this purpose of Crane's work, we shall be better prepared to understand his methods, his content, his obscurity. We shall, of course, not seek the clear forms of a poet of Probability, like Frost. But we shall, also, not too widely trust Crane's kinship with the poets of the Emersonian era, whose tradition he immediately continues. They were all, like Crane, bards of Possibility rather than scribes of realisation. Yet they relied upon inherited forms . . . forms emotional, ethical, social, intellectual and religious, transplanted from Europe and not too deliquescent for their uses. Whitman's apocalypse rested on the politics of Jefferson and on the economics of the physiocrats of France. Emerson was content with the ideology of Plato and Buddha, his own class world not too radically differing from theirs. Even Emily Dickinson based her explosive doubts upon the permanent premise of a sheltered private garden, to which such as she could always meditatively retire. These conventional assumptions gave to these poets an accessible and communicable form; for we too have been nurtured on the words of that old order. But in Crane, none of the ideal landmarks, none of the formal securities, survive; therefore his language problem—the poet's need to find words at once to create and to communicate his vision—is acute. Crane, who began to write while Frost was perfecting his story, lived, instinctively at first, then with poignant awareness, in a world whose cant outlines of person, class, creed, value—still clear, however weak, in Emerson's Boston, Whitman's New York, Poe's Richmond—had dissolved. His vision was the timeless One of all the seers, and it binds him to the great tradition; but because of the time that fleshed him and that he needed, to substance his vision, he could not employ traditional concretions. He began, naked and brave, in a cultural chaos; and his attempt, with sound materials, to achieve poetic form, was ever close to chaos. What is clear in Crane, besides the intensity and the traditionalism of his creative will, is the impact of inchoate forces through which he rose to utterance. Cities, machines, the warring hungers of lonely and herded men, the passions released from defeated loyalties, were ever near to overwhelm the poet. To master them, he must form his Word unaided. In his lack of valid terms to express his relationship with life, Crane was a true culture-child; more completely than either Emily Dickinson or Blake, he was a child of modern man.
Harold Hart Crane was born in Garrettsville, Ohio, July 21, 1899. His parents, Clarence Arthur Crane and Grace Hart, were of the pioneer stock that trekked in covered wagons from New England to the Western Reserve. But his grandparents, on both sides, had already shifted from the farm to small town business; and Clarence A. Crane became a wealthy candy manufacturer in Cleveland. Here, the poet, an only child, lived from his tenth year. At thirteen, he was composing verse; at sixteen, in the words of Gorham Munson, [in Destinstions] "he was writing on a level that Amy Lowell never rose from." In the winter of 1916, he went with his mother, who soon separated from her husband, to the Isle of Pines, south of Cuba, where his grandfather Hart had a fruit ranch; and this journey, which gave him his first experience of the sea, was cardinal in his growth. The following year, he was in New York; in contact with Margaret Anderson and Jane Heap, editors of The Little Review; tutoring for college; writing; already passionately and rather wildly living. At this time, two almost mutually exclusive tendencies divided the American literary scene. One was centered byEzra Pound, Alfred Kreymborg, the imagists, Harriet Monroe's Poetry and The Little Review; the other was grouped about The Seven Arts. Young Crane was in vital touch with both. He was reading Marlowe, Donne, Rimbaud, Laforgue; but he was also finding inspiration in Whitman, Sherwood Anderson and Melville. His action, when the United States lurched into war, reveals the complexity of his interests. He decided not to go to college, and by his own choice, returned to Cleveland, to work as a common laborer in a munition plant and a shipyard on the Lake. He loved machines, the earth-tang of the workers. He was no poet in an ivory tower. But he also loved music; he wanted time to write, to meditate, to read. The conflict of desires led him, perhaps, to accept what seemed a comfortable compromise; a job in the candy business of his father where he hoped to find some leisure without losing contact with the industrial world.
The elder Crane seems to have been a man of turbulent and twisted power, tough-fibred and wholly loyal to the gods of Commerce. He was sincerely outraged by the jest of fortune which had given him a poet for a son. Doubtless, he was bitter at his one child's siding with the mother in the family conflict; but under all, there was a secret emotional bond between the two, making for the ricochet of antagonism and attraction that lasted between them until the father's death, a year before the poet's. The candy magnate set to work to drive the "poetry nonsense" out of his boy. Hart became a candy salesman behind a counter, a soda-jerker, a shipping clerk. He received a minimum wage. Trusted employees were detailed to spy on him lest he read "poetry books" during work hours. Hart Crane escaped several times from the paternal yoke, usually to advertising jobs near home or in New York. And at last, in 1920, he decided to break with both Cleveland and his father.
His exquisite balance of nerves was already permanently impaired. The youthful poet, who had left a comfortable household to live with machines and rough men, who had shouldered "the curse of sundered parentage," [The Bridge] who had tasted the strong drink of literature and war, carried within him a burden intricate and heavy, a burden hard to hold in equilibrium. Doubtless, the chaos of his personal life led him to rationalise that accessible tangent ease from the strain of balance, which excess use of alcohol invited. Yet there was a deeper cause for the dis-equilibrium which, when Crane was thirty-two, was finally to break him from his love of life and destroy him.
Crane was a mystic. The mystic is a man who knows, by immediate experience, the organic continuity between his self and the cosmos. This experience, which is the normal fruit of sensitivity, becomes intense in a man whose native energy is great; and lest it turn into an overwhelming, shattering burden, it must be ruthlessly disciplined and ordered. The easiest defense from this mystic burden is of course the common one of denying the mystic experience altogether. An anti-mystical age like ours is simply one so innerly resourceless that it solves, by negation and aggressive repression, the problem of organic continuity between the self and a seemingly chaotic world—thus perpetuating the inward-and-outward chaos. The true solution is too arduous for most men: by self-knowledge and self-discipline, it is to achieve within one's self a stable nucleus to bear and finally transfigure the world's impinging chaos. For the nucleus within the self, as it is gradually revealed, is impersonal and cosmic; is indeed the dynamic key to order in the "outward" world. By this synthesis of his own burden, the mystic escapes from destruction and becomes a master. Crane did not personally achieve it. Yet he was too virile to deny the experience of continuity; he let the world pour in; and since his nuclear self was not disciplined to detachment from his nerves and passions, he lived exacerbated in a constant swing between ecstasy and exhaustion. Therefore, he needed the tangent release of excess drink and sexual indulgence.
The poet was clearer and shrewder than the man. His mind, grown strong, sought a poetic principle to integrate the exuberant flood of his impressions. The important poems, anterior to The Bridge, and written between his nineteenth and his twenty-fifth year, reveal this quest but not the finding. As Allen Tate points out in his Introduction to White Buildings (1926), "a suitable theme" is lacking. The themes of these poems are high enough. But, to quote Mr. Tate again: "A series of Imagist poems is a series of worlds. The poems of Hart Crane arefacets of a single vision; they refer to a central imagination, a single evaluating power, which is at once the motive of the poetry and the form of its realisation." This central imagination, wanting the unitary principle or theme, wavers and breaks; turns back upon itself instead of mastering the envisaged substance of the poem. That is why, in this first group, a fragmentary part of a poem is sometimes greater than the whole. And that is why it is at times impossible to transpose a series of images into the sense- and thought-sequence that originally moved the poet and that must be perceived in order to move the reader. The mediate principle, conterminous with both the absolute image-logic of the poem and the thought-logic of the poet, and illumining the latter in the former, is imperfect. The first lines of his White Buildings
As silent as a mirror is believed
Realities plunge in silence by .. .
are a superb expression of chaos, and of the poet's need to integrate this chaos within the active mirror of self. Page after page, "realities plunge by," only ephemerally framed in a mirroring mood which alas! at once melts, itself, into the turbulent procession. Objective reality exists in these poems only as an oblique moving-inward to the poet's mood. But the mood is never, as in imagist or romantic verse, given for and as itself. It is given only as a moving-outward toward the objective world. Each lyric is a diapason between two integers of a continuous one. But the integers (subjective and objective) are almost never clear; the sole clarity is the balance of antithetical movements. This makes of the poem an abstract, wavering, æsthetic body. There is not yet, as in the later work, a conscious,...
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SOURCE: "The Structure of Hart Crane's The Bridge '," in the University of Kansas City Review, Vol. 24, March, 1958, pp. 225-38.
[In the following essay, Slote defends The Bridge against critical charges of lacking structure, noting in particular Crane's own assertion that the poem is symphonic in structure rather than adhering to a traditional narrative form.}
Because contemporary literature has offered few enough long poems, it is unfortunate that Hart Crane's The Bridge1 has been generally held unworthy as a whole, though poetically rich in texture. While many have believed in the poem, following the favorable tone of Malcolm Cowley's early...
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SOURCE: "Hart Crane's Myth: The Brooklyn Bridge," in American Literature, Vol. XXXIX, No. 1, March, 1967, pp. 75-86.
[In the following essay, Arpad attempts to "uncover the Platonic sources" for Crane's "myth of the Brooklyn Bridge. "]
One striking feature of Hart Crane's The Bridge is the poet's seemingly unorthodox conception of myth. Although several scholars have made known Crane's use of myth, they have not concerned themselves with exposing the poem as myth—an idea explicit in its dedicatory proem. Furthermore, although various critics have been successful in establishing Crane as a poet by equating his Platonic idealism with romantic mysticism, this...
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SOURCE: "The Writing of 'The Bridge': 1923-1929," in The Broken Arc: A Study of Hart Crane, Oliver & Boyd, 1969, pp. 121-51.
[In the following essay, Butterfield attempts to account for the disunity within The Bridge by examining the circumstances surrounding its composition.]
I am perfectly sure that [The Bridge] will be
finished within a year.1 (Crane—Jul. 21, 1923)
The usual criticism of The Bridge is that, while many of the separate parts are of an astonishing power and beauty, the whole lacks order, unity, and coherence. In the last few years there have been...
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SOURCE: "The 'Super Historical' Sense of Hart Crane's The Bridge," in Genre, Vol. XI, Winter, 1978, pp. 597-625.
[In the following essay, Rowe examines the "anti-poetic " nature of the primary symbol of the bridge.]
Art has the opposite effect to history; and only, perhaps, if history suffers transformation into a pure work of art, can it preserve instincts or arouse them. Such history would be quite against the analytical and inartistic tendencies of our time, and even be considered false. But the history that merely destroys without any impulse to construct will in the long run make its instruments tired of life; for such men destroy...
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SOURCE: "A Divided Self: The Poetic Responsibility of Hart Crane with Respect to 'The Bridge '," in Modernist Studies, Vol. 3, No. 1, 1979, pp. 3-18.
[In the following essay, Schwartz explains the fragmentation of The Bridge by discussing the ways in which Crane's temperament and training were actually unsuitable to the writing of such a poem.]
I would like to consider the question of how Hart Crane came to think of himselfas the kind of poet who could undertake the composition of The Bridge By temperament, education, and heritage Crane was the worst equipped of poets to undertake an exhaustive meditation upon the nature of the modern with its...
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SOURCE: "A Poetics for 'The Bridge '," in Twentieth Century Literature, Vol. 26, No. 3, Fall, 1980, pp. 278-93.
[In the following essay, Ramsey argues that readers must have a clear idea of the poetics of The Bridge in order to appreciate Crane's genius.]
The criticism of Hart Crane's The Bridge has generally dealt out the opinion that Crane was, as James Russell Lowell called Shakespeare, "an inspired idiot." No one can be satisfied with the poem, but no one can let it alone either; no one (almost) can find the large truth in it that Crane claims to have attempted, and yet most readers find intermittent excellence, calling it with Allen Tate "a...
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SOURCE: "Two Views of 'The Bridge '," in The Sewanee Review, Vol. LXXXIX, No. 2, Spring, 1981, pp. 191-205.
[In the following essay, Cowley explains what he sees as two different ways to read The Bridge: "integrationists, " who assert that the poem has a unified plot and vision, and "dispersionists, " who believe that the poem is inherently and deliberately fragmented.]
Fifty years after the book was first published, little doubt remains that Hart Crane's The Bridge is a monument of American poetry. Among the longer poetic works I should place it below Whitman's "Song of Myself," but above almost everything else; and this is a judgment shared by many...
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SOURCE: "Theme and Free Variation: The Scoring of Hart Crane's 'The Bridge' ," in The Arizona Quarterly, Vol. 37, No. 3, Autumn, 1981, pp. 197-213.
[In the following essay, Sharp considers The Bridge as a piece of modern music]
In a letter to Gorham Munson, Hart Crane wrote:
Modern music almost drives me crazy! I went to hear D'Indy's II Symphony last night and my hair stood on end at its revelations. To get those, and others of men like Strauss, Ravel, Scriabin, and Bloch into words, one needs to ransack the vocabularies of Shakespeare, Jonson, Webster (for theirs were the richest) and add on scientific,...
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SOURCE: "Cultural Revisions in the Twenties: Brooklyn Bridge as "Usable Past"," in The American Self: Myth, Ideology and Popular Culture, edited by Sam B. Girgus, University of New Mexico Press, 1981, pp. 58-75.
[In the following essay, Trachtenberg discusses The Bridge as a landmark of the 1920s cultural and aesthetic vision.]
Hart Crane's The Bridge (1930) has its origins in the twenties. As much autobiography as "myth of America," the poem belongs not only to the decade's syncopated tempos and aesthetic entrancements, but as well to its deep changes and conflicts. The poet's own life in these years of encroaching mechanization, standardization, and...
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SOURCE: "Toward a Poetics of Technology: Hart Crane and the American Sublime," in The Southern Review, Vol. 20, No. 1, January, 1984, pp. 68-81.
[In the following essay, Chaffin contends that The Bridge is most properly read as exemplary of representations of the sublime in American literature.]
To his critics, Hart Crane remains an inspired but troublesome poet—one whose reach, in the end, far exceeded his grasp. Particularly vexing to assayers of his poetic legacy has been The Bridge, Crane's intended magnum opus, which was published in 1930, two years before his suicide.
While critics have come to acknowledge the breadth and uneven...
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SOURCE: "The Bridge," in On the Modernist Long Poem, University of Iowa Press, pp. 47-67.
[In the following essay, Dickie discusses the problems Crane encountered in dealing with the form of the long modernist poem.]
It is hazardous to begin writing a long poem at the end, and all the more so with a long poem that will rely on the poet's moments of inspiration. Hart Crane's difficulties in writing The Bridge may be traced to this peculiar method of composition and to the assumptions about form that it embodies. Crane finished the final section of The Bridge first, and he called it "Atlantis." With that section completed, it was hard to begin the poem,...
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SOURCE: "The Success of Failure: Hart Crane's Revisions of Whitman and Eliot in 'The Bridge '," in South Atlantic Review, Vol. 54, No. 1, January, 1989, pp. 55-70.
[In the following essay, Schultz considers the use Crane made of the works T. S. Eliot and Walt Whitman in writing The Bridge.]
Hart Crane composed The Bridge during the seven years between 1923 and 1930. His ambitions for the poem were enormous: it was to be nothing less than what he called, in letters to his patron otto Kahn, "a new cultural synthesis of values in terms of our America" (Letters 223) and "an epic of the modern consciousness" (308). The very scope of his ambition threatened the...
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SOURCE: ""The Bridge': "Too Impossible An Ambition?"" in Hart Crane: A Re-Introduction, University of Minnesota Press, 1989, pp. 83-109; 121-23.
[In the following essay, Berthoff uses other criticism and Crane's own correspondence to evaluate the success or failure of The Bridge.]
No one now pays much attention to Edgar Allan Poe's famous pronouncement, delivered in the apprehensive dawn of literary modernism, that given natural limits to human responsiveness there can be no such thing as a satisfactory long poem; only short compositions machined to produce a single affective impression can be admired straight through. Yet understanding Poe's peremptory rule for what...
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SOURCE: "Back Home Again in India: Hart Crane's 'The Bridge '," in Romantic Revolutions: Criticism and Theory, edited by Kenneth R Johnson, Gilbert Chaitin, Karen Hanson, and Herbert Marks, Indiana University Press, 1990, pp. 269-96.
[In the following essay, Irwin focuses on the question of self and national origin in the "Indiana " section of The Bridge.]
Several years ago I published a book called American Hieroglyphics, that dealt with the influence of the decipherment of the Egyptian hieroglyphics on the literature of the American Renaissance and used this rather specialized area of inquiry as a means of raising larger questions about the figuration of the...
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SOURCE: ""Our Native Clay': Racial and Sexual Identity and the Making of Americans in 'The Bridge '," in American Quarterly, Vol. 44, No. 1, March, 1992, pp. 24-50.
[In the following essay, Gardner discusses Crane's notion of racial and sexual identity in The Bridge.]
Being a naïve European, I could not help remarking to my American companion: "I really had no idea there was such an amazing amount of Indian blood in your people."
"What!" said he. "Indian blood? I bet there is not one drop of it in this whole crowd. . . . "
I know the mother nations of North America pretty well, but if I relied solely...
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