Sometimes you've just got to pay the other guy off, and I'm talking about Carl Sandburg.
Here we have our Literary City, birthplace and/or alma mater to Willa Cather, Hemingway, Sherwood Anderson, Dreiser, B. Traven, Algren, Bellow. Who gets to hang the tag on it? Carl Sandburg.
His poetry was a second tincture of Walt Whitman; and, finally, not good for all that much more than correcting the roll on a pool table. But when the world thinks of Chicago, does it think of Vachel Lindsay ("We were Prairie Democrats, and this was our day") or Darrow's summation in the Leopold-Loeb...
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