Eidólons
By Brody Eldridge
Two-hundred and fifty years: America's capitol sits, pristinely clean, on the hill.
The Ulysses S. Grant Memorial
The National Gallery: Monet. Turner. Da Vinci. Napoleon (in his study) stands over millions of visitors each year. Here, a girl reads in the dim warm light of the ground floor, surrounded by other American and European sculptures. Perhaps she reads Langston Hughes writing on racial (in)equality: "Besides,/ They’ll see how beautiful I am And be ashamed—/ I, too, am America."
The United States Capitol: Millions of people from all different backgrounds come to the front steps. Charles Dickens once visited Washington, writing "This is not the republic of my imagination." And still, then and now, it is the republic of many.
The Library of Congress: After the British burned Washington in 1814, Thomas Jefferson sold his books to Congress, supplying the foundation for the Library of Congress. Now home to a concentration of American literary culture, from Benjamin Franklin's personal writings to Ralph Ellison's personal library.
The Senate Fountain: The words of America's great poet, Walt Whitman, ring out from the forests of the Pacific Northwest; to the plains of Texas where the cowboys roam; to the farmland of Indiana and the Midwest; to the states of Appalachia. The words ring out to home to the bustling District: "The present now and here,/ America's busy, teeming, intricate whirl,/ Of aggregate and segregate for only thence releasing,/ To-day's eidólons."