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The Politics of Love in the 1860 Leaves of Grass
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5. The Politics of Love in
the 1860 Leaves of Grass

In May 1860, the firm of Thayer and Eldridge produced a new edition of Leaves of Grass, which Whitman himself pronounced typographically “‘odd’” and odd in other ways as well (Corr 1:52). As he explained in a letter to his brother Jeff, this new and enlarged book was the first edition of Leaves of Grass to be “really published,” and for the moment he took an author's justifiable pride in having unambiguously entered the marketplace. “The book will be a very handsome specimen of typography, paper, binding, etc,” he wrote from Boston, where he was seeing his delayed manuscript through the press, “and will be, it seems to me, like relieving me of a great weight—or removing a great obstacle that has been in my way for the last three years. The young men that are publishing it treat me in a way I could not wish to have better. They are go-ahead fellows, and don't seem to have the least doubt they are bound to make a good spec. out of my book. It is quite curious, all this should spring up so suddenly, aint it” (Corr 1:51).

Curious indeed, but also produced by much toil. Thayer and Eldridge, the eager young men, had written to Whitman in February, a month after he published an anonymous self-review called “All About a Mocking-Bird” announcing the birth of “the true ‘Leaves of Grass,’” which he pronounced an advance over its predecessors in “quantity, quality, and in supple lyrical exuberance.”[1] The book was undeniably larger than either the 1855 or 1856 Leaves of Grass, many of the old poems had been revised, and some of the new ones were indeed surpassingly supple and

lyrical. Exuberance, however, is a curious word to describe the overall effect of the volume, which interrogates poetic power in complicated ways, as does the lushly evocative literary performance Whitman had featured in his self-review, and which we now know as “Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking.” (The poem was called “A Child's Reminiscence” when it was published in the Christmas issue of the Saturday Press on December 24, 1859, and then “A Word Out of the Sea” in the 1860 Leaves of Grass.) Figuratively, this emblematic autobiography describes the collapse of a seemingly perfect two-parent family and the end of a seemingly idyllic boyhood. As the poet identifies with both he-bird and she-bird—the one abandoned, the other abandoning—he finds his mature self in reclaiming “the fire, the sweet hell within, / The unknown want, the destiny of me” (LG 1860, p. 276).

Despite the fact that poetic power emerges from this history of erotic bereavement—for love (in the past tense) and death are the words out of the sea—Whitman was exquisitely sensitive to charges of ennui or morbidity, especially insofar as those charges were aimed at his literary and sexual project. He deeply distrusted that “individualism, which isolates,” and already believed, as he later announced in Democratic Vistas, that “the master sees greatness and health in being part of the mass” (DV 948–49). Thus in advertising his new book as supple and exuberant, he was hoping to defend himself against uncomprehending or bizarrely motivated attacks on his intelligence and character, of which there were plenty.[2] He was also prepared to publish the book himself, as he had his earlier works, and his friends the Rome brothers set proof for him before Thayer and Eldridge entered the picture. “Those former issues,” he explained vehemently in “All About a Mocking-Bird,” “published by the author himself in little pittance editions, on trial, have just dropped the book enough to ripple the inner first-circles of literary agitation. The outer, vast, extending, and everwidening circles, of the general supply, perusal, and discussion of such a work, have still to come.”[3]

In this revealingly defensive self-review, Whitman's grandiose language expanded to fill the gulf between himself and the general reader, with whom he feared (and somewhat hoped) that he had little in common. For if the mature poet of “Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking” justifies his vocation as a response to erotic bereavement, he translates this loss into a “new style … removed from previous models” (Corr 1:44), whose meaning eludes definition in the as yet incomplete present. This new style unsettles the traditional family romance later described by Freud.[4] Freud's account of individual maturation imagines discrete

phases of development and produces gender-specific behavior; Whitman hoped that the new style forced upon him for “American purposes” might authorize more fluid forms of attachment. As he explained in a letter to the editors of Harper's Magazine, “Every really new person, (poet or other,) makes his style—sometimes a little way removed from the previous models—sometimes very far removed” (Corr 1:460). For our purposes and for Whitman's, the word “sometimes” is key. Any author needs to differentiate himself or herself from previous models. But whether Whitman was willing to set himself continuously apart from middle-class models of sexual identification and desire remained an urgent and open question. Could he persuade the American public to accept “adhesiveness or love” as that which “fuses, ties, and aggregates, making the races comrades, and fraternizing all” (DV 948–49)? Like women, African Americans were identified with the body; might an expanded discourse of sexual feeling eventually amplify their power in the public sphere as well?

“Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking” beautifully associates poetic power and personal suffering, as Whitman claims that his own frustrations have sensitized him to the needs of others. But how consistently did the Mocking-Bird poet intend to sacrifice his own interests to advance the cause of others, for example the cause of his dusky demon and brother? In minstrel shows, mockingbirds were associated with African Americans, yet despite the poem's black/white imagery and regional emphases, it is still possible to read “Out of the Cradle” without noticing its specifically racial dimension. None of the contemporary reviews commented on this theme, and Whitman wondered whether a formally sophisticated, psychologically inclusive art of indirection could speak both in its own time and to poet-readers of the future.

Consider the Calamus narrative, which translates Whitman's personal history of homoerotic love into a new “tongue.” Here race as a category of social analysis is subsumed by gender and perverse sexual desire. Implicitly, we read Calamus as the story of unconventional white men. Emerging out of personal and social experience but still tied to it, the Calamus poems underscore competing conceptions of the culturally functional self—as does the 1860 Leaves of Grass more generally. These competing conceptions are responsible for the oddities Whitman described in the letter written from Boston to his brother Jeff. What, for example, are we to make of Whitman's cartoonlike visual symbols: his rising and setting suns, butterflies and pointing fingers, globes and weighted-down clouds—to say nothing of his various typefaces, filigree decorations, and idiosyncratic capitalization: “I saw in Louisiana a liveoak

growing” (LG 1860, p. 364). Probably Whitman wished to reveal the arbitrary nature of any single stylistic choice or medium, and, as the Mocking-Bird poet, he ironized style as performance. To the extent, then, that Whitman might be understood as mocking a hegemonic sexual style through his arbitrary-seeming visual devices, he was further opening up a space for what he called a “new friendship” between men.

By the same stylistic logic and as if to compensate white women for their potential loss of power within his emerging homoerotic-friendly republic, at the level of metaphor he suggested that his intervention would provide Woman—traditionally the bearer of emotion in culture—with an enhanced public role. Homoerotic culture need not exclude women, but it did need to redefine both their public and private function. Whitman in 1860 continued to believe that the literary artist could intervene most powerfully in social reorganization by waging a parodic war of words rather than an actual war of arms. Although he described his words as weapons, he mainly knew that to be an artist was to participate in some fights and to ignore others. There were times when he lost his balance, but on the whole he wanted to substantiate multiple erotic freedoms rather than to reinscribe a single sexual style. And so racial justice mattered to him, but it was far from his most important issue. Addressing himself to present and future readers, the speaker, “full of life, sweet-blooded, compact, visible” (LG 1860, p. 378), looks back to the house of maternity as he has never known it. In so doing, the Mocking-Bird poet affirms his own struggle; the fight for sexual freedom and for a liberating rather than a confining domesticity matter most.

“States!” the poet declaimed without any apparent irony, in Calamus 5,

Were you looking to be held together by the lawyers?
By an agreement on a paper? Or by arms?
I arrive, bringing these, beyond all the forces of courts and arms,
These! to hold you together as firmly as the earth itself is held together.
The old breath of life, ever new,
Here! I pass it by contact to you, America.
O mother! have you done much for me?
Behold, there shall from me be much done for you.

(LG 1860, p. 349)

“Affection” did not of course succeed in solving what Whitman optimistically called “the problems of freedom,” however determined he was to

identify love, social justice, America, motherhood, and the tally of his own ambiguously sexed white male voice. Nevertheless, with the 1860 Leaves of Grass, Whitman issued a powerful challenge to contemporary understandings of the proper and even possible relationship between that “individualism, which isolates,” and “adhesiveness or love,” which “fuses, ties, and aggregates, making the races comrades, and fraternizing all.” For in this new book, he attempted to convert an American attitude of social distrust between men into a national and international aesthetic of affection, loyalty, and love. As exemplified by “Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking,” the poet drew on the fabled resources of his own personal past to escape not only from “the cries of unsatisfied love” but also from the hate-filled cries of the present.[5] One might think that the novels, poems, plays, personal letters, diaries, sermons, and political speeches that after several hundred years had so effectively generated metaphors of American society as a unified, intact family might have been exhausted. Yet Whitman was deeply reluctant to let those unifying metaphors go. His self-review, for example, while chanting the multivocality of American culture—as exemplified in his own “songs” by such diverse influences as the Italian opera, piano tunes, negro bands, Homer, Shakespeare, Milton, the Hebrew canticles, Pope, Byron, Wordsworth, German and French singers, and by extension all foreigners—nevertheless equated foreign influence with the wrong kind of national childhood, that is, with social, political, and economic dependency. Furthermore, as Whitman's allusion to the performance of negro bands attests, he was also concerned with racialized foreignness: with the conversion of race into otherness. Despite the breadth of his embrace, an enduring part of Whitman equated cultural pluralism with an infantile ensemble in which “all the sounds of earth and hell were tumbled promiscuously together.” Bumping up against the slavery crisis, which haunted even the seemingly timeless, stately progressions of “Cradle,” Whitman effectively translated the problems of “America” and of “democracy” into a more soothing and politically evasive language of feeling. Escaping into what he hoped would be a more tractable future, the Mocking-Bird poet thus represented himself as the founder of a bold race of giants, located in “the great West,” where the eager “children of the prairies” were waiting to be supplied with “copious thousands of copies” of his new book.

I do not mean to suggest, however, that Whitman's reconfiguration of relations among men was motivated primarily by his desire to solve the problems of “America” and of “democracy,” which, as he explained in Democratic Vistas, he proposed to treat as “convertible terms” (DV

930). The ideal American democracy of the future, whatever else it might be, would have to accommodate him, in his emerging but still “furtive” (homo)sexual role. As I have been suggesting, the convergence of personal and political motives enabled Whitman to extend his imagination of national “ensemble” to thematize eroticized relations between men. I shall argue that in so doing Whitman came close to freeing himself from the prolonged ambivalence toward intimate male bonding described in previous chapters.

Whitman's eroticization of the homosocial friendship tradition as it had been written up to his time is especially pronounced in the sequence of forty-five lyrics grouped together under the title Calamus-Leaves, and then simply Calamus, a Greek-derived word the poet intended to signify both botanically and phallically. “The recherche´ or ethereal sense of the term, as used in my book,” he later explained, “arises probably from the actual Calamus presenting the biggest & hardiest kind of spears of grass.” He further suggested that “‘Calamus’ is a common word here,” meaning in the United States, and that this large aromatic grass, often called “sweet flag,” was in abundance “all over the Northern and Middle States” (Corr 1:347). Whitman identified this native-grown yet recherche´ “root of washed sweet flag” with the “occult convolutions of his brain” (LG 1855, p. 49), with his spiritualized body's “rich blood” and seminal “milky stream,” and with his “adhesive” heart's desire.[6] Because he was concerned not only about the apparent failure of political parties and “kept editors” to establish an enduring social and political union, but also about the undemocratic and possibly morbid connotations of manly love, he constructed a sequence of fifteen poems titled Enfans d'Adam (later renamed Children of Adam), in which the female presence was central. “Theory of a Cluster of Poems,” Whitman recorded in one of his preliminary notebook entries: “The same to the Passion of Woman-Love as the ‘Calamus-Leaves’ are to adhesiveness, manly love” (NUPM 1:413). Using several poems previously published and writing some new ones, Whitman grouped these Adamic poems together after organizing the more subtle if heartwrenching Calamus sequence. It is ironic, then, that in the United States as well as in England, the “Woman-Love” poems were attacked for their supposed indecencies.[7] In England, however, the “Man-Love” Calamus poems were more readily received as an important passage in the history of intensely charged male-male desire, as “this beginning” not of “me” but “of us” (LG 1860, p. 450; LG, p. 488).[8] These occult and daring representations of love between men have in some measure justified Whitman's hope that his third book

might be a “divine volume” (LG, p. 657) or, as he also called it, a “New Bible” (NUPM 1:353). But while reminding himself that “The greatest poems may not immediately be fully understood by outsiders any more than astronomy or engineering may.—The work of the poet is as deep as the astronomer's or engineer's, and his art is also as farfetched” (NUPM 1:371), Whitman was not conceding to those who sought to marginalize him as a “queer person” (Corr 1:4). On the contrary. Whitman ardently hoped that the 1860 Leaves would confirm his reputation as a distinguished artist, rather than as “the ‘rough,’ the ‘eccentric,’ ‘vagabond’ or queer person, that the commentators, (always bound for the intensest possible sensational statement,) persist in making him”[9]—however much he himself had fostered the rough, eccentric, vagabond, and queer person myths. And so he dressed up for his frontispiece portrait, looking thoughtful and corpulent, curly-haired and constrained. Gone is the studied insolence of his younger, brasher self.

Let us return for the moment to Whitman's self-review, in which he suggested that his literary apprenticeship was over. Here his voice remained uncertainly pitched, in part because the genre of the anonymous self-review was too strange even for him.

LEAVES OF GRASS has not yet been really published at all. Walt Whitman, for his own purposes, slowly trying his hand at the edifice, the structure he has undertaken, has lazily loafed on, letting each part have time to set—evidently building not so much with reference to any part itself, considered alone, but more with reference to the ensemble—always bearing in mind the combination of the whole, to fully justify the parts when finished.

Perhaps Whitman was recalling the language supplied several years earlier by his friend Hector Tyndale, a traveled and cultivated Philadelphia merchant, who had suggested that Whitman's poems were lacking “‘in massiveness, breadth, large, sweeping effects, without regard to detail.’” He urged Whitman to strive for “‘largeness, solidity and spaciousness,’” without troubling himself with parts (NUPM 1:351). This was bad advice, and Whitman troubled himself a great deal about justifying both the broad effects and the parts of his sexual project.[10] As did Ralph Waldo Emerson, who even as type was being set tried to get him to eliminate or tone down the fifteen “Amorous, mature” poems Whitman felt were needed to counterbalance the more unusual or “recherche´” male-male intensities of the Calamus grouping.[11]

With several interesting exceptions, in these more theoretical woman-centered poems the speaker does not risk disappointment, defeat, and death as he does within the more lyrical and elegiac Calamus grouping.


Yet this supposedly more conventional sequence is full of quirky detail, beginning with the apparent misspelling or deliberate creolization of the title Enfans d'Adam, which Whitman subsequently regularized to Children of Adam. A consideration of the apparently illogical thought and feeling of this still deservedly controversial section may serve to introduce Whitman's ambivalent quest for lovers and perfect equals in the 1860 Leaves of Grass. As an artist who claimed to speak for the ordinary man and woman rather than for the “literary classes,” Whitman was not above privileging his superior insight into the supposed laws of human nature and of human relationships, including the egotism to which he was no stranger. I mention this egotism now because the Children of Adam poems demonstrate Whitman's concern with power inequalities in heterosexual relations in and out of marriage. He himself is implicated in these inequalities: the poems critique power in its various sexual guises; in their “farfetched” way, they also covet it.


Of course, the Enfans d'Adam sequence has no exclusive purchase on apparent illogicality, for the volume as a whole has little in common with the hierarchically organized “cathedral” structure recommended by Tyndale as a model. But considered as an inquiry into the relationship between desire and social forms, the Enfans d'Adam sequence is unusually subject to multiple interruptions, or silencings, even for Whitman. For example, in the second poem of the sequence, the speaker moves from “singing the phallus, / Singing the song of procreation, / Singing the need of superb children, and therein superb grown people” to “Singing what, to the Soul, entirely redeemed her, the faithful one, the prostitute, who detained me when I went to the city, / Singing the song of prostitutes.” The first poem had concluded with a seemingly lovely image of democratic sexual politics: “By my side, or back of me, Eve following, / Or in front, and I following her just the same.”[12] In the mental and physical space between poems one and two, Eve disappears, as do all women, along with the image of Whitman as a follower. After a brief excursion into phallic preening, praise of procreation, veiled homoerotic tenderness, and veiled autoerotic shame, the speaker's diffuse “muscular urges” are now located within a desiring but degendered body. From this mythic location Whitman produces the “true song of the Soul, fitful, at random” (LG 1860, p. 288).

This dehistoricized, disembodied speaker searches for some essential

value “yet unfound,” having “diligently sought it, ten thousand years.” But in lines Whitman eliminated in 1881, a new historical identity is constituted around the idea of female prostitution. Since “The Soul” is associated with “her,” “the faithful one,” “the prostitute,” “me” and “I,” these figures all seem like parts of the same person. That is, the idea of prostitution has the effect of regendering the speaker. There is no attempt to describe the prostitute as an individual and in that sense the speaker has not found a lover and perfect equal. But by insisting on her fidelity to him, he has begun to collapse the distinction between leader and follower that made it impossible for him to pursue his idyll with Eve. Collapsing this distinction is crucial to his sexual and political project and, as I will suggest, works best in the poems on male-male love, where gender inequalities can seemingly be banished to the margins of his discourse.

Whatever his conscious ideological intent, Whitman recounts a turning away from rather than toward emotional and sexual intimacy, even as he seeks ontological clues that will focus homoerotic longings he is not yet willing to claim as his own. Appropriating biblical myth, and comparing himself both to Adam and Adam's descendants, he calls for “Potent mates, daughters, sons” (LG 1860, p. 287) without quite calling for potent wives. Because women cannot really be trusted, he addresses himself to “the perfect girl who understands me—the girl of The States” (LG 1860, p. 290). Yet throughout the Enfans d'Adam sequence, which emerged out of a dense and densely sexist historical context, Woman functions mainly as an inferior power position; the title itself diminishes Eve's importance. Whitman had first introduced Adam and Eve, those traditional exemplars of patriarchal marriage, in the last (and worst) poem of the 1855 Leaves, now called “Great Are the Myths,” which he dropped from the much revised and expanded volume in 1881. “Great are Adam and Eve. … I too look back and accept them” (LG 1855, p. 142), he wrote, without being able to do so. Several pages later, after praising the cultural supremacy of English speech (“the mother of the brood that must rule the earth with the new rule”), he introduced a list comprised of such lawful pleasures as “commerce, newspapers, books, freetrade, railroads, steamers, international mails and telegraphs and exchanges,” including “marriage” as one of “the old few landmarks of the law,” an antipassional positioning if ever there was one (LG 1855, p. 144). Evidently Whitman's list of social institutions that are not to be “disturbed,” however disturbing they may be, begs the following question. How can commerce, newspapers, marriage, and other competing

social institutions be integrated? Having written himself into an ideological impasse in which he supports legal tradition and proclaims its meaninglessness to the upstart eternal or universal soul that judges paradoxically and perfectly, Whitman concludes,

Great is life. . and real and mystical. . wherever and whoever,
Great is death. … Sure as life holds all parts together, death holds all parts together;
Sure as the stars return again after they merge in the light, death is great as life.

(LG 1855, p. 145)

With this 1855 poem, Whitman dismantles marriage, reducing it to a mere legality. Yet he proves himself an unreliable revolutionary. First, he insists that throughout human history the same ideals have governed interpersonal relationships, and he seemingly approves of these traditional norms of social organization. But second, he suggests that to question a single part of this habitually organized project is to precipitate the collapse of the whole. He himself is unwilling to risk this total reconfiguration of the moral imagination, yet as a “perfect judge” he hopes that we won't believe him when he declares that he has “absolute faith.” He both wants and does not want to perpetuate his “odd” self-revisions, which reflect competing loyalties. Whether intentionally or unintentionally, Whitman encourages a resisting reading. His declarations of faith are assaultive, and the poem appears not to have an immediate occasion. Perhaps Whitman was reading something (a letter?) or had just heard something that sent him over the edge. Representing himself as a naive believer in all the myths that have governed human history, including the immortality of the soul, the poet circumvents such conventional genres as the love lyric, the political or social satire, and the religious or philosophical meditation, to inscribe something significantly more abstract: an appeal to death itself as the joiner, destined to hold all the social parts together, even when—especially when—the poet himself cannot imagine their integration. If the speaker cannot or will not distinguish between just and unjust laws, and between “marriage, commerce, newspapers, books, freetrade, railroads, steamers, international mails and telegraphs and exchanges,” how much more cynical about the structures that govern intimate human relations can we expect him to become? And so the 1855 Leaves of Grass ends with the words, “Death is as great as life.”[13]

Five or so years later, dreaming of himself as a supremely potent lover of his medium, language, which even in his despair he had called “the

mightiest of the sciences” (LG 1855, p. 144), Whitman continued to rewrite the regulatory heterosexual myths that have determined and, he believed, deformed human history.[14] In the Enfans d'Adam sequence, directing our attention to his “resurrection, after slumber,” he appears eager to seduce us into accompanying him on his journey toward a better place, a lusher, more androgynous garden. “(Hark, close and still, what I now whisper to you,” he writes, “I love you—O you entirely possess me, / O I wish that you and I escape from the rest, and go utterly off—O free and lawless, / Two hawks in the air—two fishes swimming in the sea not more lawless than we)” (LG 1860, p. 289). This revitalized place is intermittently represented as less emphatically gendered. For example, the speaker, having welcomed “the sight of the perfect body, / The swimmer swimming naked in the bath, or motionless on his back lying and floating,” seems to identify with “The female form approaching—I, pensive, love-flesh tremulous, aching.” This language occludes the difference between Whitman as woman and Whitman as observer of woman. But the speaker then breaks into this intensifying, sexually indeterminate moment by announcing, “The slave's body for sale—I, sternly, with harsh voice, auctioneering,”

The divine list, for myself or you, or for any one, making,
The face—the limbs—the index from head to foot, and what it arouses,
The mystic deliria—the madness amorous—the utter abandonment[.]

(LG 1860, p. 289)

This particular interruption hearkens back to his interaction with the faithful prostitute, and it appears that the speaker feels enslaved by his dalliance with the female form. The slave's body is unmarked by gender, but I have always assumed that Whitman had a male slave body in mind, since the function of the figure is to divert us from his imaginary fusion with the feminine. Other readings are of course possible, and the self-abandonment motif may go in a number of different directions, especially in the direction of the love-slave.[15] But to my ear there is nothing erotic about this passage, although Whitman, in dissolving the slave's body into its component parts, may also be trying to redeem it for his “divine list,” his democratic catalogue of unfallen children of God.

After seeking to extricate himself from a racial and sexual trap, which in its attempt to collapse binaries also reinscribes them, Whitman turns to the reader for help, and then returns to his attempt to write persuasively about the love of real men for real women by swearing fidelity to

“the woman that loves me, and whom I love more than my life.” As we may now have come to expect, this pledge is rapidly exhausted. Throughout the Children of Adam sequence (to call the poems by their revised name), Whitman seeks to rewrite the myth of patriarchal marriage without being able to come to terms with his own fear of feminization, which he associates with lawlessness in the form of erotic self-abandonment. Following Eve, he becomes Eve, which is both a frightening and a thrilling experience. The emotional logic of the sequence depends on this paradox, which I wish to consider now in greater detail.

The most moving (in the sense of emotionally compelling) poem in the sequence famously exists in two radically different versions. Its emotional appeal is partly dependent on this liberating doubleness.[16] As published in 1860, “Once I passed through a populous city” presents the speaker as a man with a memory he cannot or will not shake off. For whatever reason, he has separated from “that woman who passionately clung to me,” who held him “by the hand,” mutely imploring him not to go, “with silent lips, sad and tremulous” (LG 1860, p. 311). Though his destiny takes him elsewhere, stereotypically all he remembers is her. A romantic ballad of hopeless love, the poem links idealized love and guilt, as Whitman identifies with the woman whom he has abandoned and who still faithfully keeps his shrine. In its manuscript form, however, Whitman's woman is a man and the poem reads as follows.

Once I passed through a populous city, imprinting on my brain, for future use, its shows, architecture, customs and traditions
But now of all that city I remember only the man who wandered with me there, for love of me,
Day by day, and night by night, we were together.
All else has long been forgotten by me—I remember, I say, only one rude and ignorant man who, when I departed, long and long held me by the hand, with silent lip, sad and tremulous.

(UPP 2:102)[17]

There are minor differences between the version Whitman published in 1860 and the manuscript version first published by Emory Holloway in 1920: for example Whitman's male lover has a silent lip, whereas his female lover has silent lips, a difference that now signifies in relation to Luce Irigaray's classic essay, “Ce sexe qui n'en est pas un” [“This Sex Which Is Not One”].[18] There are also minor differences between both versions and the text Whitman eventually settled on as definitive in 1881. But the tonal difference is most marked in two directions. Whitman

clearly knows “the man” better than the figure he first identifies vaguely as “a woman,” and she is portrayed as Whitman's social equal, whereas the man is “rude and ignorant.” Although one of the first biographers suggested that she was “of a higher social rank than his own,” there is nothing in the 1860 poem to support this idea. The manuscript, however, is emphatic. The “youth” who wanders with Whitman is not his social equal.[19]

Although we have already seen Whitman romanticizing both rudeness and ignorance, as Wordsworth (among others) had taught him to do, here this aggressive judgment unsettles the poem. In condescending to his beloved, the speaker flirtatiously exploits him. So this description is uncomfortable on two counts. It indicates Whitman's lack of erotic self-confidence—we hear him wondering: Would a youth full of manners and learning want him?—and it belittles the beloved's intelligence, while seemingly praising his style. Rudeness was one of Whitman's major erotic tropes, and it functions brilliantly in such poems as “I Saw in Louisiana a Live-Oak Growing,” from the Calamus sequence, where the idealized tree's look, “rude, unbending, lusty,” makes the speaker think of himself (LG 1860, p. 364), or at least of his hopes for himself, if he could only learn to relax and enjoy life without subjecting it to too much analysis. Along related lines, in “I Sing the Body Electric,” the third poem in the Enfans d'Adam sequence, Whitman had taunted the reader, “Do you know so much yourself, that you call the slave or the dull-face ignorant?” (LG 1860, p. 297), a question marking the difference between book-learning and heart-learning, identifying racial and ethnic prejudice with the wrong kind of egotism, and pointing sentimentally toward a democracy of feeling which might rescue the body politic from its various diseases. While ignorance was not always attractive to Whitman, the homoerotic fantasy of a rudely unconventional and lawless friend, censored in the published version of “Once I passed through a populous city,” powerfully reemerges in the preceding poem, Enfans d'Adam number 8, in which Whitman writes,

Native moments! when you come upon me—Ah you are here now!
Give me now libidinous joys only!
Give me the drench of my passions! Give me life coarse and rank!
Today, I go consort with nature's darlings—tonight too,
I am for those who believe in loose delights—I share the midnight orgies of young men,
I dance with the dancers, and drink with the drinkers,
The echoes ring with our indecent calls,

I take for my love some prostitute—I pick out some low person for my dearest friend,
He shall be lawless, rude, illiterate—he shall be one condemned by others for deeds done;
I will play a part no longer—Why should I exile myself from my companions?
O you shunned persons! I at least do not shun you,
I come forthwith in your midst—I will be your poet,
I will be more to you than to any of the rest.

(LG 1860, pp. 310–11)

Perhaps the (male) prostitute, the low person, and the dearest friend are one and the same. Perhaps the speaker's encounter with the (female) prostitute prepares him for other sexual adventures. But whether or not the prostitute is a man, the male lover clearly is. And in this poem, Whitman's beloved friend is outside the law because, it seems, he has nothing to lose and doesn't know any better, unlike the speaker whose self-esteem and reputation are at stake. Whitman says that he will play a part no longer, but lawlessness, rudeness, and illiteracy don't come easily to him. As an intellectual, he hopes to learn how to consort with nature's darlings, dance with the dancers, drink with the drinkers, and so forth. Here is the journalistic Whitman looking for new material, broadening his horizons. But the journalist-poet who is in the wrong (now right) part of town is unwilling to give up his morally privileged point of view. He knows what's indecent and what isn't; though he would like to have the power to redefine obscenity, he would be a fool to believe that such power actually inheres in him—a fool, a madman, or an ego-obsessed poet. Versions of this story and these feelings remain in the manuscript draft of “Once I passed through a populous city,” in which Whitman similarly counts on a lower-class other to initiate him into a world of loose delights. Though he chose not to publish the male-gendered version of his narrative of “passing,” a new psychological and literary style about which he was deeply ambivalent had been forced upon him. In the Calamus sequence, as Robert K. Martin observes, Whitman continued to “search for a form for the expression of love between men.”[20] The elegiac tone persists, for in Whitman's experience male-male love both banished melancholy and induced it. Looking to the future, however, the poet hoped that his partial confessions would spare others the pain and reinforce the pleasure that had inspired his art. And so he forged on, for American purposes and for his own, redefining his relation to liter-ary tradition, to his audience, and to a conflicted self.



There have been suggestions that “I Saw in Louisiana a Live-Oak Growing” was drawn directly from Whitman's experience in New Orleans, and it seems likely that this poem was based in part on the love affair Whitman had in that Southern city with a vulnerable youth whom he seduced and abandoned. This youth reminds him of himself. The poem's landscape is pastoral and dreamlike; the isolation of the setting mimics the frightening, unbounded solitude Whitman tends to associate with urban rather than with rural life. The tree signifies primarily as a solitary singer, and Whitman feels some understandable resentment about his tree-rival's capacity for self-reliant utterance out of a seeming void. Despite the poet's identification with his symbol, this tree can't really be humanized, for to be human is not merely to take up space, to talk, and to feel happy, but to need a society of like-minded friends. Resenting and coveting the tree's self-sufficiency, Whitman maims and appropriates what he can, and, carrying it back to his room, drapes the now-broken twig with moss. As a curious token of manly love, Whitman's incomplete art work reminds him of his absent “friends,” while underscoring the rivalry that troubles male-male affection.[21]

In this brilliantly lit yet shadowy poem about what it means to be human, to be a poet, and to be a public figure, Whitman distinguishes himself from his leafy precursor through his need for intelligent affection. For this is a poem in which Whitman, with his self-divisions, despairs of ever finding the beloved, intuitive, and knowledgeable life companion for whom his heart aches. Rudeness and lustiness are not all. Moreover, to the extent that Whitman romanticizes the tree's freedom from the conventional rivalries of male gendering, he introduces a covertly racialized other, tropically dark and glistening, whose power he wishes to appropriate.[22] Whitman's fashionable melancholy functions to conceal his imperial designs. Although he “naturally” suffers from the sentimental heartsoreness that seems neverending, he returns to his room with his spoils. Taming the public rival, Whitman replicates the symbolic logic of the humiliation-driven male economy from which he seeks to escape and against which he needs his dream-friends to defend him.

As we might expect, the rivalry that emerges as a key component of male bonding for the Whitmanian subject remains an obstacle to love in other poems of the Calamus sequence. Sentimental revery provides a buffer against such rivalry but ultimately proves insufficient. Throughout

the sequence, Whitman engages in a number of experiments which seek to carry over the episodic good feeling generated by his private associations into the public sphere. To the extent that he can reconfigure these episodes as culturally significant, he hopes to heal the division between the me and the not-me, produced in part by the dissociation of young men from the work, the vision, and the affections of their fathers. And mothers too, for the ideals Whitman associated with societal perfection were often figured through the republican mother.[23] “When fathers firm, unconstrained, open-eyed—When breeds of the most perfect mothers de-note America, / Then to me ripeness and conclusion,” Whitman writes in “So Long,” the concluding text of the 1860 Leaves of Grass (p. 452). But until that time, other solutions would have to do.

In Enfans d'Adam, for example, the poet had proposed “sex”—actual and figurative—as a solution to the problem of defining a significant, culturally mature literary vocation in America. Sex functions more obliquely in Calamus, but as I suggested a moment ago, there is plenty of revery designed to reconfigure the anxiety-producing, competitive, or even punitive structures of desire that impede or preclude male intimacy. For example, in Calamus 19, which immediately precedes “Live-Oak,” the speaker redefines bravery to include heart-courage, and begins by asking the implied listener or reader, “Mind you the timid models of the rest, the majority? / Long I minded them, but hence I will not—for I have adopted models for myself, and now offer them to The Lands.” As America's new male model, Whitman emphasizes his unglamorous white working-class affiliations when he directs our attention to his “swarthy and unrefined face,” unkempt beard, “brown hands, and … silent manner … without charm.” However unprepossessing these attributes—I take it that his tired “gray eyes” are not particularly alluring—this speaker poses no threat to the superior class status of the fantasized listener.[24] His beard is unclipped on his neck, but woolly and benign. Far from exemplifying the lawless energies described and mocked in “We Two Boys” (Calamus 26), this less commanding speaker is intent on pleasing and being pleased. “Yet comes one, a Manhattanese,” he writes, “and ever at parting, kisses me lightly on the lips with robust love, / And I, in the public room, or on the crossing of the street, or on the ship's deck, kiss him in return; / We observe that salute of American comrades, land and sea, / We are those two natural and nonchalant persons” (LG 1860, p. 364).

Whitman's erotic reveries are not confined to the United States alone.

At a number of immensely pressured points in the Calamus sequence, he transgresses national boundaries to achieve a desired sentimental end. Following shortly after the live-oak meditation, for example, in Calamus 23, he explains,

This moment as I sit alone, yearning and thoughtful, it seems to me there are other men in other lands, yearning and thoughtful; It seems to me I can look over and behold them, in Germany, Italy, France,

Spain—Or far, far away, in China, or in Russia or India—talking other dialects; And it seems to me if I could know those men better, I should become attached to them, as I do to men in my own lands, It seems to me they are as wise, beautiful, benevolent, as any in my own lands;

O I know we should be brethren and lovers, I know I should be happy with them.

(LG 1860, p. 367)

Similarly, in “Long I thought that knowledge alone would suffice me” (Calamus 8, which Whitman never reprinted), the speaker overflows national boundaries (“Take notice, you Kanuck woods”), but the effect is very different. Renouncing his mission as America's imperialist bard to romp with the “One who loves me [and] is jealous of me, and withdraws me from all but love” (LG 1860, p. 354), he explores a more privatized, dependent, and feminized mode. In this subsequently suppressed poem, the speaker begins by recounting the history of his career, which he distorts in order to emphasize the drama of his self-transformation. The claim is that he had previously been uninterested in erotic relationships and motivated solely by a patriotic creed. (That the democratic poet had been frustrated by an unresponsive national and international audience remains implied rather than directly stated, like so much else in this superbly elliptical and tonally ambiguous self-portrait.) As he searches impatiently for a new kind of knowledge, the emerging homoerotic poet is frankly flattered by his lover's jealous need to withdraw him from, as he puts it, “all but love.” Lover X is “jealous of” Whitman in several senses. Most obviously, he wants Whitman for himself and demands all of his sexual energy, attention, and affection. Less obviously, as a representative of the homoerotic private sphere, he feminizes Whitman, and this influx of femininity at first proves authenticating for the speaker, who is now out from behind a mask.[25]

That Whitman could not drop this mask for any length of time is part of a larger and by now well-known story. The British man of letters John

Addington Symonds, for example, first encountered Whitman through this poem in 1865, when his close friend F. W. H. Myers read it to him at Cambridge.[26] (Myers was a founder of the Society for Psychical Research.) Yet when Symonds persisted in his decades-long campaign to enlist Whitman as a homosexual rights advocate, the poet responded by condemning “morbid inferences” and boasting of six illegitimate children. In an infamous letter of August 1890, Whitman explained, “Tho’ always unmarried I have had six children, two are dead—One living southern grandchild, fine boy, who writes to me occasionally. Circumstances connected with their benefit and fortune have separated me from intimate relations” (Corr 5:73). Biographers agree that these are the children of fancy.[27]

Perhaps late in 1871, Symonds initiated the correspondence by sending Whitman a copy of his Love and Death, inscribed on the title page, “To the Prophet Poet / Of Democracy Religion Love / This Verse / A Feeble Echo of His Song / Is Dedicated” (Corr 2:158). A cover letter noted that the poem “is of course implicit already in your Calamus, especially in ‘Scented herbage of my breast.’” Whitman responded warmly in late January 1872, calling the poem “beautiful & elevated,” saying he had “read & reread” it, that he considered it “of the loftiest, strongest & tenderest,” and that “I should like to know you better.” The letter concluded, “Pray dont think hard of me for not writing more promptly. I have thought of you more than once, & am deeply touched with your poem.” Despite this auspicious beginning, the correspondence culminated, as I have suggested, in one of the sorriest episodes in Whitman's life. In August 1890, Symonds wrote,

In your conception of Comradeship, do you contemplate the possible intrusion of those semi-sexual emotions & actions which no doubt do occur between men? I do not ask, whether you approve of them, or regard them as a necessary part of the relation? But I should much like to know whether you are prepared to leave them to the inclinations & the conscience of the individuals concerned?

A mild enough question, but Whitman responded emphatically,

Ab't the questions on Calamus pieces &c: they quite daze me. … that the calamus part has even allow'd the possibility of such construction as mention'd is terrible—I am fain to hope the pages themselves are not to be even mention'd for such gratuitous and quite at the same time entirely undream'd & unreck'd possibility of morbid inferences—wh’ are disavow'd by me & seem damnable. (Corr 5:72–73)


Though a number of critics have amplified Whitman's response to suggest that he had his reasons (as undoubtedly he did), the fact remains that Whitman's fears got the better of him. In his letter of August 3, Symonds specifically asked Whitman to endorse the decriminalization of consenting homosexuality between adults in England and the United States, which he refused to do.

That Whitman could not publicly abandon his heterosexual persona for any length of time is very much part of the history of “Long I Thought” (Calamus 8), which in setting forth the antagonism of public and private spheres seems to choose the latter as having definitely the better claim. Yet the speaker who turns from the politics of poetry to the politics of male-male marriage will find that more intimate politics equally demanding. As Symonds noted in his 1890 essay “Democratic Art,” “No individual man can be wholly original,” and the bard who celebrates male homoeroticism as the bonding emotion of nations cannot wholly exclude women from his project.[28] Nor does he unambiguously want to. In representing the intimate and physical love of male comrades and lovers, Whitman eases the tension between public performance and private perversity by a legitimating refeminization of male-male love. This tension is further eased by tropes of marital fidelity, comradeship, and brotherhood which mystify the politicized gender anxieties aroused by homoerotic relationships and which further defend Whitman against the unresponsive audience he leaves behind.[29] We may be forgiven for suspecting that the quasi-marriage into which Whitman enters in “Long I Thought” will quickly reproduce the undemocratic gendered anxieties of the public sphere. But this is knowledge from which the poem seeks to defend us.

Surely the speaker's world elsewhere cannot last long. Nor do we steadfastly want it to. The community he forms with his lover is founded on jealousy; we are right to suspect that jealousy will undo it.[30] For the moment, however, the poet who had turned to literature for his knowledge of male heroism—“the examples of old and new heroes … of warriors, sailors, and all dauntless persons” and who was further inspired by the idea that “it seemed to me that I too had it in me to be as dauntless as any—and would be so”—happily finds himself put to the test of a real attachment (LG 1860, p. 354). There is a sense, then, in which his lover's jealousy is reassuring, as it was to Symonds, who described the poem as a trumpet call and was puzzled to discover in 1867 and subsequently that the poem which first “thrilled” him had disappeared from

view. Why, he inquired of the aging poet in 1889, “have you so consistently omitted this in the canon of your works?”[31]

Whitman never answered, but critics have often suggested that because the Calamus poems seek to lend public significance to homoerotic and homosexual attachments, Whitman excluded from Leaves of Grass the “all but love” poem we have been considering, along with several others that subvert the patriotic mystifications of his homoerotic project.[32] These mystifications include a brilliantly heterogeneous vocabulary whose daring confrontations are already pronounced in “Starting from Paumanok,” the “Proto-Leaf” or long new opening poem of the 1860 volume, on which, his notebooks show, he had been working for many years. Phrenology, religion, the Anglo-American male friendship tradition, fancy French imports, garden variety romanticism—the off-shoots of such radically disparate material cultures wind and twist around one another in “Paumanok,” recreating identities, part historical, part fanciful, that might authentically populate those curiously empty lands seized by the white man and poet from his displaced Indian brothers. Whereas the Indian father who sits dumbly smoking with his friends in “Song of Myself” seems narcotized by the illusion of male power, the poet trapped by love but conscious of his own entrapment reclaims the center from his literary rivals. “Not he, adhesive, kissing me so long with his daily kiss,” Whitman writes,

Has winded and twisted around me that which holds me to him,
Any more than I am held to the heavens, to the spiritual world,
And to the identities of the Gods, my unknown lovers,
After what they have done to me, suggesting such themes.

(LG 1860, p. 13)

“After what they have done to me, suggesting such themes.” Here the note of outrage is unmistakable, yet the greedily neologizing 1860 poet continues to hope that “Affection shall solve every one of the problems of freedom,” that “Those who love each other shall be invincible,” and that “They shall finally make America completely victorious, in my name” (LG 1860, p. 349). The fear already announced in this opening poem is that manly affection might rob him of his manhood and that the experience of loving another man might confine him to the margins of American life. Yet just as Whitman looks beyond Manhattan and the already aging cities of the Eastern seaboard to a romanticized “inland America” dreamily inhabited by the “tan-faced prairie-boy” whose youthful docility he fancies, so Whitman looks beyond the historical

jealousies of the world he has known to pronounce, at the extreme verge of utterance,

Americanos! Masters!
Marches humanitarian! Foremost!
Century marches! Libertad! Masses!
For you a programme of chants.

(LG 1860, p. 7)

Let us return to the multiple ambivalences of the Calamus sequence. The lyricist who renounces the public sphere is not sure that he can trust the muse who ties him to a more spiritual, politically marginalized, and homoerotic world. Thus whereas “Long I Thought” counterpoints the loss of political agency and the access of erotic power, the next poem takes a closer look at the unofficial marriage into which the speaker has entered, while emboldened by the touching belief that “It is to be enough for us that we are together—We never separate again” (LG 1860, p. 355). “Hours continuing long, sore and heavy-hearted” (Calamus 9, later excluded from Leaves of Grass) explodes this privatized trope of eternal fidelity and suggests that Whitman was right to be wary of the lover who demanded the sacrifice of his ambition. Now it is Whitman's turn to be jealous, sleepless, physically agitated, and all the rest of it. “Pacing miles and miles, stifling plaintive cries,” he finds that his erotic value has diminished in giving up “all for love.” During these “sullen and suffering hours” while he contends with shame, he asks poignantly,

I wonder if other men ever have the like, out of the like feelings?

Is there even one other like me—distracted—his friend, his lover, lost to him?

Is he too as I am now? Does he still rise in the morning, dejected, thinking who is lost to him? and at night, awaking, think who is lost?

Does he too harbor his friendship silent and endless? harbor his anguish and passion?

Does some stray reminder, or the casual mention of a name, bring the fit back upon him, taciturn and deprest?

Does he see himself reflected in me? In these hours, does he see the face of his hours reflected?

(LG 1860, pp. 355–56)

I can testify to the fact that not everyone sees himself or herself reflected in this poem, which evoked a laugh and the response “poor guy” from an unsympathetic seminar I once taught. Yet for the humiliated Whitman, this question—has any other man ever felt the same not only out of like feelings but out of a like occasion—holds the key to others.

Such as: can an illicit love affair that ends unhappily be publicly acknowledged? Such as: what will be the effect of his loneliness on his writing? Such as: might his loss of face, sorrow, or degradation—he's not sure what to call it—make him more accessible to ordinary readers who have previously been offended by his bluff? Though his lover is lost to him (and the implication is clear that the lover who forgets him has found someone else), he can't imagine falling in love again; the emotional resilience on which he formerly prided himself is a thing of the past. Then, too, just when he thinks he is getting to be his more or less tolerable self again, “some stray reminder, or the casual mention of a name, bring the fit back upon him, taciturn and deprest.”

During these unnaturally prolonged hours of his torment, he sees no way out of his romantic obsession except, as Elizabeth Bishop later suggested with some irony, to “Write it!”[33] Thus the next poem in the sequence (Calamus 10), which is addressed to “You bards of ages hence!” seeks to discriminate more finely between various types of poems and poetic identities.[34] But he no longer feels like a leader of his nation's moral imagination, and his prophetic “American” poems seem to bear no relationship to those motivated by erotic possessiveness. Nor does he care to be remembered by them. Unfortunately, the “tenderest lover” is also the sorest and most vulnerable. This erotic victim (unlike the poetic strong man) is filled with “the sick, sick dread lest the one he loved might secretly be indifferent to him” (LG 1860, p. 356). Indifferent to place, his happiest hours are spent in privatized rural settings, “through fields, in woods, on hills, he and another, wandering hand in hand, they twain, apart from other men.” Or sauntering the city streets, with his arm over his friend's shoulder, his friend's arm over his.

In his identity as private lyric poet, Whitman offers to take us down “underneath this impassive exterior,” but since he doesn't really trust succeeding generations to draw their own conclusions about his turbulent inner life, he composes an epitaph for himself. And it is a flattering one, if somewhat dictatorial.

I will tell you what to say of me:

Publish my name and hang up my picture as that of the tenderest lover,

The friend, the lover's portrait, of whom his friend, his lover, was fondest,

Who was not proud of his songs, but of the measureless ocean of love within him—and freely poured it forth,

Who often walked lonesome walks, thinking of his dear friends, his lovers,

Who pensive, away from one he loved, often lay sleepless and dissatisfied at night,


Who knew too well the sick, sick dread lest the one he loved might secretly be indifferent to him,

Whose happiest days were far away, through fields, in woods, on hills, he and another, wandering hand in hand, they twain, apart from other men,

Who oft as he sauntered the streets, curved with his arm the shoulder of his friend—while the arm of his friend rested upon him also.

(LG 1860, pp. 356–57)

Despite his representation of himself as a blameless victim, the problem of social trust persists. What if the future bard (or “recorder,” in the more neutral language that prevailed) sees something other than tenderness beneath the speaker's impassive exterior? What if in addition to seeing prohibited male-male desire he or she sees an emotional volatility that may not be wholly ascribed to a homophobic culture? Previously Whitman has described himself as arrogant and deceitful. Will the unknown recorder remember these weaknesses and suspect that Whitman's sexual attentions are short-lived? If so, how will he or she respond? Who is the empowered reader/recorder to whom Whitman makes his incomplete confessions?

The third of the problematic poems subsequently excluded from Leaves of Grass raises precisely this question.

Who is now reading this?
Maybe one is now reading this who knows some wrong-doing of my past life,
Or maybe a stranger is reading this who has secretly loved me,
Or maybe one who meets all my grand assumptions and egotisms with derision,
Or maybe one who is puzzled at me.
As if I were not puzzled at myself!
Or as if I never deride myself! (O conscience-struck! O self-convicted!)
Or as if I do not secretly love strangers! (O tenderly, a long time, and never avow it;)
Or as if I did not see, perfectly well, interior in myself, the stuff of wrong-doing,
Or as if it could cease transpiring from me until it must cease.

(LG 1860, pp. 361–62)

At first glance, the act of loving strangers seems to be a highly forgivable crime of which to accuse himself, if all he does is love them from afar. Yet sudden sexual temptations had interested Whitman at least as early as Franklin Evans, and in the first edition of Leaves of Grass the poet had asked, “If you meet some stranger in the street and love him or her, do I not often meet strangers in the street and love them?” (LG 1855,

p. 88). Sudden sexual temptations, and the strange meetings with which they are associated, can emblematize both the problems and the promise of democracy.[35] They generate, for example, the unexpected and class-less intersections of the 1856 masterwork “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry,” in which Whitman projects himself ecstatically into an unlimited future. His curious attachment to other people, to “Crowds of men and women attired in the usual costumes,” to “the sailors at work in the rigging, or out astride the spars,” and to “the pilots in their pilot-houses,” ties him to the strangely observant reader of the future: to you and me. “Closer yet I approach you,” he writes, “What thought you have of me, I had as much of you—I laid in my stores in advance, / I considered long and seriously of you before you were born” (LG 1860, p. 384).

We may read “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry” as suggesting that a broadly humanist mission precludes particular male-male homoerotic attachments. The poem both affirms and denies the value of individual sexual experience. The masculine poet-persona who places his faith in the masculine or feminine reader of the future is troubled by his own erotic cowardice in the present. He is a “solitary committer,” a masturbator (NUPM 1:231; LG 1856, p. 217). Despite this fault, which was vividly demonized by antebellum medical and moral discourse, the great renunciation of homosexual love Whitman makes in secret is empowering. Because of his self-discipline and his suffering, he is able to imagine himself fusing men, genders, nations, and races together. Within the less heroic compass of “Who is now reading this?” a secret love is a deforming love.

In “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry,” the temptation renounced by the Whitman persona is brilliantly rendered. When he hears the young men who call him clearly and loudly by his nighest name as they see him “approaching or passing,” and when he feels their arms on his neck as he stands, “or the negligent leaning of their flesh” against him as he sits, or sees “many I loved in the street, or ferryboat, or public assembly, yet never [tells] them a word,” he emerges to testify that, whatever his particular fleshly temptations, he “lived the same life with the rest,” and that every social being performs a part, “The same old role, the role that is what we make it, as great as we like, / Or as small as we like, or both great and small” (LG 1860, p. 384). Moreover, at this potentially alienated moment, when the poet looks back on “the actor or actress,” he suggests that something escapes from the web of socially constructed or performative identity, that there is a real me capable of resisting its painfully compromised moment. In most poems of the Calamus sequence,

however, this real me no longer exists as a separate and mocking entity because the speaker's social self is more substantial. That is, once the social self is experienced as real, the real me has no autonomous psychological function.

Calamus 40 makes this point by contrasting “That shadow, my likeness, that goes to and fro, seeking a livelihood, chattering, chaffering,” with the writing self never doubting “whether that is really me.” The writing self continues to thrive “among my lovers” at the end of the Calamus project, whereas in “As I Ebb'd with the Ocean of Life,” both the “real me” and an equally hostile eternal self block Whitman's access to substantiating types of “athletic love” (LG 1860, p. 341). Consequently, his confidence in the coincidence of writing self and erotic self collapses; antagonists multiply, and the real me is “real me.” This excessive typography underscores Whitman's conviction that there will never be any permanent community in which he can recognize himself as a familiar and acceptable (loving) person. He knows nothing and believes that “no man ever can” (LG 1860, p. 197). There are no young men to whom he may speak, no young men on whom he may lean. In the absence of this youthful community of men, Whitman experiences himself as a posthumous writer, his dead lips oozing forth words that may have a certain superficial charm—they glisten and roll—but that lead nowhere. Whereas progress usually depends not only on distance from the past but on movement toward a goal, in “As I Ebb'd with the Ocean of Life” the speaker is trapped in an unreal crossing. Isolated from the young men who call him “Walt,” he is haunted by the “sobbing dirge of Nature” (LG 1860, p. 199). This female-identified voice of lamentation cannot feed his soul. As Michael Moon has suggested, Whitman's Leaves of Grass project was designed to merge social and erotic experience.[36] While this merger is not fully achieved in the Calamus sequence, the events recounted, even when bitter and painful, are rarely described as unreal. Whitman recognizes the self that has been thwarted in love because he remembers the self that has succeeded. Memorably, in Calamus 11,

And that night, while all was still, I heard the waters roll slowly continually up the shores,

I heard the hissing rustle of the liquid and sands, as directed to me, whispering, to congratulate me,

For the one I love most lay sleeping by me under the same cover in the cool night,

In the stillness, in the autumn moonbeams, his face was inclined toward me,

And his arm lay lightly around my breast—And that night I was happy.

(LG 1860, p. 358)


These memories fortify him for the future. And so the cycle ends:

When you read these, I, that was visible, am become invisible;

Now it is you, compact, visible, realizing my poems, seeking me,

Fancying how happy you were, if I could be with you, and become your lover;

Be it as if I were with you. Be not too certain but I am now with you.

(LG 1860, p. 378)

The project of realizing a self is ongoing, and it is possible. Even death does not thwart it, because the language of real (that is, commonly agreed upon) hope is conceived as more powerful.

Nevertheless, the Calamus poems reinscribe differences the visionary Whitman was determined to deny. As previously noted, Whitman distrusted that “individualism, which isolates,” unless it could be made to speak to “adhesiveness or love, that fuses, ties and aggregates, making the races comrades, and fraternizing all” (DV 949). His theory of democracy rejected the claims of “destructive iconoclasms,” and he insisted in Democratic Vistas, his postwar sexual manifesto, that “democracy alone can bind all nations, all men, of however various and distant lands, into a brotherhood, a family” (DV 948). Whitman's class-binding democracy always depended on his faith in the People, whereas many of the most interesting Calamus poems reflect his distrust of ordinary readers, not just of “the literary classes.” This distrust is especially marked in poems that explore the paradoxical social fate of two together. These autobiographical-sounding poems critique the negative consequences of male-male romantic obsession, as well as the intolerance of a homophobic culture. Such intense relationships reinscribe the isolating individualism Whitman's Leaves of Grass project was intent on revising.

We would therefore do well not to exaggerate the strategic differences among the first three editions of Leaves of Grass. I have been describing Whitman's progress toward speaking the love that dare not speak its name, but in making heterosexuality public in 1855, 1856, and 1860, he was not simply leading us toward the promised land of male-male love. As Richard Rorty contends, Whitman was deeply critical of the negative consequences of sexual repression, but Rorty fails to remark that Whit-man was also intent on telling a life story that was full of contradiction.[37] Consequently, Whitman never lets us linger for long in a pure sexual utopia, especially since he sees sexuality as partly constituted by sadism. Even after the physically attractive butcher-boy of “Song of Myself” puts off his killing-clothes, he “sharpens his knife at the stall in the market.” The narrator enjoys his “repartee and his shuffle and breakdown”—the

breakdown of what?—but the subordination of animal to human merely underscores the visual subordination of younger to older man and of worker to writer (LG 1855, p. 34). Whitman does his best to minimize these differences of class and occupation and language, but they persist. His career depends on them; had “these States” already “achieved our [true] country,” there would have been no call for Leaves of Grass. In short, Whitman has no way of telling the story of a continuously unrepressed sexual life; he lives in the world as we still know it in this regard, a world whose successes are partly constituted by acceptable social sadism. The people Whitman knew and the character he inhabited were powerfully resistant to anything like the paradigm-shift he claimed to be, and in part was, seeking. Consequently, when Rorty suggests that “Whit-man would have been delighted by rock and roll, drugs, and the kind of casual, friendly copulation which is insouciant about the homosexual-heterosexual distinction,” he oversimplifies.[38] The loving and thirsting-eyed poet of “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry” was both seduced and threat-ened by the beauty of the male body. He was disintegrated, yet part of the scheme, sustained in the present by his faith in a community of the future. Had that perfect community already been achieved, there would be no projected intersection of time and timelessness in “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry.” A draft notebook entry for the poem records that “Where the great renunciation is made in secret, that will allure me” (NUPM 1:232), and Whitman's refusal to concentrate on one particular lover (“English Johny,” for example, who is mentioned on the recto of one of his loose compositional fragments [NUPM 1:228]), could, under some circumstances, reinforce his sense of connection to the whole human race. But if sexual secrecy was necessary to his project, it was also his project's undoing. Sexual secrecy as experienced by Whitman was profoundly self-isolating and one night with one sleeping lover was not enough.

As I have been suggesting, in the second (1856) edition of Leaves of Grass Whitman tends to emphasize the relationship between sexual love and social cohesion rather than the “destructive iconoclasms” of individual romantic obsession. This is true even of “Song of the Open Road,” a companion piece to “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry,” and more idiosyncratically expressed. In “Song of the Open Road,” Whitman suddenly explains,

Here is adhesiveness—it is not previously fashioned, it is apropos;
Do you know what it is as you pass to be loved by strangers?
Do you know the talk of those turning eye-balls?

(LG 1856, p. 229)


“Here is the efflux of the soul,” he continues,

The efflux of the soul comes through beautiful gates of laws, provoking questions,

These yearnings, why are they? these thoughts in the darkness, why are they?

And then this passage, adapted from a notebook draft,

Why are there men and women that while they are nigh me the sunlight expands my blood?

Why when they leave me do my pennants of joy sink flat and lank?

Why are there trees I never walk under but large and melodious thoughts descend upon me?

(I think they hang there winter and summer on those trees, and always drop fruit as I pass;)

What is it I interchange so suddenly with strangers?

What with some driver as I ride on the seat by his side?

What with some fisherman, drawing his seine by the shore, as I walk by and pause?

What gives me to be free to a woman's or man's goodwill? What gives them to be free to mine?

(LG 1856, pp. 229–230)

As we might expect, the notebook passage is concerned with men alone. (The brackets indicate Whitman's deletions.)

Why [are] be there men I meet, and [many] others I know, that [when] while they are with me, the sunlight of Paradise [warms] expands my blood—that [if] when I walk with an arm of theirs around my neck, my soul [leaps and laughs like a new waked child] scoots and courses like [a caressed] an unleashed dog [caressed]—that when they leave me the pennants of my joy sink flat [from the] and lank in the deadest calm?

After an interval, and noting that he is writing at home while his brother Jeff is practicing the piano, Whitman alludes to “Some fisherman,” “some carpenter,” “some driver,” “men rough, [rough], not handsome, not accomplished.” Then he asks,

Why do I know that the subtle chloroform of our spirits is affecting each other, and though we may [never meet] encounter not again, [we know feel that we two] have [pass] exchanged the right [mysterious] [unspoken] password [of the night], and [have] are thence free [entrance] comers to [each] the guarded tents of each others' [love] most interior love?

(What is the [cause] meaning, any how, of my [love attachment] adhesiveness [for] toward others?—What is the cause of theirs [love for] toward [for] me?)—(Am I loved by them boundlessly because my love for them is more boundless?—) (DBN 3:764–65)

Like “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry” and “Song of the Open Road,” this early notebook entry reworks the problems and promise of malehomoerotic

desire, as experienced by Whitman, who was nothing if not inventive in devising passwords of the night. We have already noted his enthusiasm for stage drivers in previous chapters, and there is a very interesting essay to be written on Whitman and fishermen, whose cooperative virile actions extravagantly enthralled him. Between fishermen, fish rather than women function as mediums of exchange, and there are passages in which Whitman's desire to be a (phallic) fish is palpable, for example at the start of the 1860 “Starting from Paumanok,” the birth island he characterizes unexpectedly as “fish-shape.” But the pennants of joy that vivify the remarkable notebook entry quoted above have flagged in the 1860 poem “Who is now reading this?” where strangers have nei-ther voice nor heft nor occupation, love is a word, and the speaker finds himself unhappily estranged not only from conventional (hetero)sexual norms but also from himself as a purposefully occupied and socially familiar human being. That sense of playing the same part with the rest is gone, as is his desire to play the part well, as is his ability to realize the cooperative feeling, at first feigned, with which he would like to “im-bue [his] soul” (EPF 210). There now appears to be a self-destructive element in his “love” which he cannot sublimate; without effective voice and without transcendent vision, he has nothing left but his self-recriminations. Unlike the idealized readers of “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry” and “Song of the Open Road,” the shape-shifting addressee of “Who is now reading this?” finally represents an unsympathetic moral perspective which has nothing to teach him. He has heard the voice be-fore, condemning him for “it” and urging him to depress the adhesive nature—all too many times.[39]

In part because of the excessively moralistic language, Whitman de-leted “Who is now reading this?” from subsequent editions of his book. Thus one critic contends that “this [poem] is the clearest expression of homosexual guilt ever to appear in Leaves of Grass,” while another sug-gests that Whitman internalized the homophobia of his culture.[40] These are good observations, but Whitman talks about loving strangers in other poems (for example Calamus 18, “City of my walks and joys!”), about not understanding himself, and about harboring evil impulses. He had already warned readers away in Calamus 3 (“Whoever You Are Holding Me Now in Hand”), and to the extent that he was defending himself against official persecution such as he encountered in Washing-ton, D.C., in 1865 and in Boston in 1881, Calamus 3 was equally dangerous.[41] Similarly, Calamus 12 warns readers in no uncertain terms against idealizing him, and in the rather gruesome Calamus 15, he urges

his “confession drops” to “Stain every page—stain every song I sing, every word I say, bloody drops, / Let them know your scarlet heat—let them glisten, / Saturate them with yourself, all ashamed and wet, / Glow upon all I have written or shall write, bleeding drops, / Let it all be seen in your light, blushing drops” (LG 1860, p. 361). If we are looking for sexual guilt, here it is. And what of Calamus 36, in which the phallic speaker likens himself to a volcano, just waiting to explode?

Earth! my likeness!
Though you look so impassive, ample and spheric there,
I now suspect that is not all;
I now suspect there is something fierce in you, eligible to burst forth;
For an athlete is enamoured of me—and I of him,
But toward him there is something fierce and terrible in me, eligible to burst forth,
I dare not tell it in words—not even in these songs.

(LG 1860, p. 374)

M. Jimmie Killingsworth points out that after the war Whitman con-sidered eliminating other poems from the sequence, as evidenced by the markings in his so-called Blue Book.[42] We can never know for sure why Whitman decided to eliminate Calamus 16. But in other poems that link sexual repression and social aggression, Whitman is less critical of him-self, and in that sense the split between the public and private Whitmans is less extreme. There are other Calamus poems which describe hopelessness, for example Calamus 28, “When I peruse the conquered fame of heroes,” in which the speaker is filled with the “bitterest envy” when he reads “of the brotherhood of lovers, how it was with them, / How through life, through dangers, odium, unchanging, long and long, / Through youth, and through middle and old age, how unfaltering, how affectionate and faithful they were” (370).[43] But here Whitman is a sym-pathetic reader of his own troubles. Finally, the spoiling-for-a-fight tone of Calamus 16 sets it apart from later statements such as Calamus 39, which eventually concluded with the touching parenthesis, “(I loved a certain person ardently and my love was not return'd / Yet out of that I have written these songs)” (LG, p. 134). The parenthesis makes all the difference. Whitman could not always believe in himself and he could not always trust his audience. Through writing, he nevertheless hoped to create an enduring erotic community which might justify the psycho-logical and perhaps physical risks he was taking. In the 1860 Leaves of Grass, there is always more than one faithful reader, even if there is only one lover. Even in Calamus 16, the speaker continues to imagine that “a

stranger is reading this who has secretly loved me” (emphasis added). But in Calamus 16, his faith in his ability to control himself, other people, and his medium has been too deeply threatened. Quite simply, we know this because, following the Civil War, Whitman excised the poem from Leaves of Grass and never reprinted it, an action that underscores its significance in his career, in his life, and in the provocatively troubled history of their interrelationship.

We are now in a better position to understand what Whitman meant by “the problems of freedom” in the 1860 Leaves of Grass, problems he proposed to solve through male-homoerotic love rather than by “lawyers … an agreement on a paper … [o]r by arms” (LG 1860, p. 349). Whitman, I think, was referring to the freedom of one “modern” person to harm another and to the freedom of any “modern” individual to harm himself. His homosocial, homoerotic, and homosexual “democracy” was a psychological and political construct. It neutralized his character-istic suspicion of male-male intimacy and affirmed the social value of non-coercive, sympathetic affection between men. The boundaries between homosocial, homoerotic, and homosexual relations were constantly re-defined by his literary project; he transgressed these historically familiar limits joyfully and at his peril. In his attempt to “plant [sexualized] com-panionship thick as trees along all the rivers of America,” Whitman fan-tasized that he and his comrades would master the world, “under a new power.” He also feared that these new masters would master him. Thus he resisted not only the heterosexual “tie[s]” that “band stronger than hoops of iron,” but the homoerotic ties that band men together as well. We will never know how Whitman would have desired to “impress” others had homophobia not been part of his world. The poet who “saw in Louisiana a live-oak growing” and who ironized style as performance was himself mocked by a “real me” that denigrated his achievements in literature and in love. Despite the power of this depressing specter, which he could not fully overcome, in the 1860 Leaves of Grass Whit-man's democratic “faith in sex” was emphatically extended to include male-homoerotic love. The first two editions of Leaves of Grass had shown the way, and this extraordinary third book revealed a powerfully autobiographical writer who, as he struggled to find happiness for him-self, encouraged others to embrace the “real reality” of their own contradictions (LG 1860, p. 344).

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