Quote Analysis in Song of Myself

The verb “to contradict” means to assert the opposite of or to object to something. The speaker not only encourages the reader’s right to criticize his inconsistencies, but also the notion that the constant evolution of time and selfhood means that contradictions are inevitable. Therefore, because he “contain[s] multitudes,” these inconsistencies are unavoidable.

Whitman once again highlights the actions he wishes for his readers to take after they have finished reading “Song of Myself.” Rather than accepting his words without objection, the speaker urges the reader to respond—even if it means challenging contradictions that he makes because he is “large” and “contain[s] multitudes.” The speaker’s request to the reader reflects the same inclusiveness that he offered to everything and everyone that he encountered throughout the poem; now, he makes space within the poem for the reader to make his or her contribution.

Given the importance of death in the final sections of the poem, it is possible that the “it” to which the speaker refers is death—or, specifically, the experience of death that, naturally, no one is able to speak about. However, Whitman hints that “it” extends beyond humanity’s concept of death, for “it” is “not chaos or death.” It is, rather, “eternal life” and “Happiness.”

Whitman extends his argument that the soul and body are one by explaining that, because the individual soul is part of the universal soul, every person can “stand cool and composed before a million universes.” Further, God is not inaccessible nor separate from the present moment around each person, and thus need not inspire curiosity.

Whitman reiterates the recurring argument that, contrary to what many religions maintain, the soul is neither superior nor inferior to the body. Rather, both the soul and the body exist together to form the individual self in its material form. Therefore, the present moment is important and must not be taken for granted—and, crucially, should not be sacrificed for the belief that the soul will be rewarded in the afterlife for misery endured while the physical body was alive.

The speaker underscores that his target readership is not restricted by socio-economic class or gender. Rather than addressing well-educated or wealthy elites, he refers to ordinary people who, during Whitman’s time, might not have had the ability to read “Song of Myself” at all. Perhaps for this reason, the speaker positions himself throughout the poem as being willing to both share and articulate the experiences of people who would not be able to speak for themselves.

The speaker expands upon his implied intentions for what the reader should do with the guidance he has provided throughout the poem. The “bold swimmer” of the previous section must learn to think for themself, rather than blindly accept information or teachings that are given as fact. If the reader is to honor Whitman’s “style,” then they must “destroy the teacher” by being endlessly inquisitive, curious, and willing to learn the truth on their own.

Whitman’s speaker seems to signal the end of the poem in this section, both in his encouraging words aimed at preparing the reader for life without him and by highlighting one of the major goals of “Song of Myself”: to awaken the reader, or “wash the gum from your eyes,” to “the dazzle and the light of every moment of your life.” Whitman then indicates the actions that he possibly wishes for the reader to take after reading—to “jump off in the midst of the sea” of the present moment and appreciate, like “a bold swimmer,” the amplified experience that the speaker has helped to cultivate over the previous forty-five sections.

Whitman's speaker uses the verb “to suffocate” to represent one of the poem’s ongoing themes: the process of interacting with and absorbing, in the form of the divine self, everything from the surrounding world. Every interaction with another person or with nature enters into the speaker, who then tries to give voice to everything and everyone he encounters.

The speaker presents the birth of the universe, or “the huge first Nothing,” as the moment that everything he is made of was brought into creation. He knows he “was even there,” sleeping “through the lethargic mist” that would eventually form galaxies, solar systems, planets—and himself. In his present moment, therefore, he “stand[s] with [his] robust soul” as the culmination of eons of evolution. Just as important, he will pass along the natural “forces” that “have been steadily employ’d to complete and delight [him]” to subsequent generations.

Whitman suggests that, in contrast to the otherworldly faith of the religions he mentioned in section forty-one, his faith is in the material reality of the present. Further, everything that has ever existed in the past and in the future coalesces into the present moment so that everything the speaker experiences is divine—and exists in the afterlife, which, unlike the Christian belief in heaven, can be created and witnessed by people in the bodies they live in.

Whitman’s speaker rejects the supernatural forces often entertained by many religions, including those he alluded to earlier in this section. Instead, he elevates even the most base and vulgar aspects of the material world—such as the “bull,” “bug,” “dung,” and “dirt”—to the level of the divine. Whitman suggests not only that the natural world is divine, but also that the divine may be created by those on earth.

Whitman sharply contrasts the dejection and powerlessness of section thirty-seven with the emergence of a supremely powerful universal self. Rather than indifferently inhabiting and sharing in the lives and experiences of those around him, the speaker’s recharged divine self lifts those around him: he will “blow grit” into the “impotent,” impregnate “women fit for conception” with “bigger and nimbler babes,” and lift “the descending man...with resistless will.” Therefore, the speaker’s omnipotent eternal self will “keep guard all night” as a protective force that will “possess” all individuals to himself instead of merely inhabiting them.

Whitman’s speaker seems to have nearly committed the “usual mistake” of believing that all of human existence is defined by pain and suffering. Rather than sharing in the pain of the prisoners in section thirty-seven, he became “possess’d” by their suffering to the extent that he began to be defined by it. Whitman seems to model the appropriate response to witnessing violence and the other horrors that are part of—but not entirely—the human experience: to acknowledge it and move on.

Until now, the speaker’s democratized universal self has engaged freely with all forms of human life, good and bad. However, the desperation and misery represented in section thirty-seven possesses him so that he becomes overwhelmed by the pain, sickness, and isolation of those who suffer imprisonment. The experience is therefore not empowering, but rather drains him of life: his face becomes “ash-color’d,” his “sinews gnarl,” and people withdraw from him.

Whitman indicates the true cost of war in this final line: the “irretrievable” loss of life. Even for the victorious, which are celebrated in section thirty-five, the tragic loss of life cannot be avoided in war. The speaker recounts the gory details aboard the Bonhomme Richard as it slowly sinks, contrasting the “soothe of waves” and “delicate sniffs of sea-breeze” with the unnerving “hiss of the surgeon’s knife” and “the gnawing teeth of his saw.”

Whitman makes liberal use of the definite article “the,” as opposed to the indefinite articles “a” or “an,” to describe the many things he sees; “the native,” “the foreign,” “the homely woman,” “the quakeress,” “the tune of the choir,” and the Methodist preacher’s “earnest words” are all specific, yet simultaneously abstract. As a result, the reader feels the effect of being everywhere with the universal self—in the present moment as life takes place, as well as throughout time.

The speaker acknowledges that the truth of all truths, or “a compend of compends,” about the universe and existence can be found in the physical bodies, or “the meat,” of humans. Further, this ultimate truth lies within the desire that people feel for each other’s bodies, or the “feeling they have for each other.” This desire, though experienced individually, will “branch boundlessly” until it “becomes omnific,” permeating all existence “until one and all shall delight us, and we them.”

Whitman contrasts his dramatic portrayal of intense sexual touch with unextraordinary, everyday touch that people have learned to take for granted. All of the material things of the world are in a state of birth or death, and therefore, as he suggests in the final stanza of this section, the only “truth” to be discovered during one’s lifetime is through touching these material things.

Whitman reflects on poetic power and his compulsion, or even temptation, to express all of the knowledge he possesses. Speech is personified as the “twin of my vision,” a provoking being that taunts him to “let it out” because his mind is overflowing with enough things to share with the world. Yet, at the end of this section, he declares that “writing and talk do not prove me,” and that everything he knows—“the plenum of proof”—can be read on his face.

Whitman, who has redefined his divine self as a “kosmos” (universe), depicts himself as a poet through whom the “forbidden voices” of prisoners, slaves, thieves, and others deemed “indecent” by society may be “clarified and transfigur’d.” Such a declaration reaffirms his unconditional love for everyone, for human life in all of its manifestations. Even the most vulgar, physical aspects of living in a human body are divine, for the transcendent self—embodied by the poet—makes “holy whatever I touch or am touch’d from.”

Whitman's speaker acknowledges the accomplishments of scientists and mathematicians, calling their work “useful” and their professions deserving of “the first honors always!” Nevertheless, he rejects them on the grounds that their facts “are not my dwelling,” suggesting that the divinity of the collective human identity transcends the materialism of modern science.

Whitman’s evolving description of grass is an example of symbolism, a device in which something is used to represent something else. Grass symbolizes multiple abstract concepts throughout the poem. A single blade of grass represents an individual in society, which constantly renews itself through numerous people’s lifespans. Grass as a larger quantity also symbolizes death, as the speaker imagines in the sixth section that the grass beneath him is the hair of dead people buried underground. Ultimately, as suggested in this line, grass represents the cycle of life, death, and hope—as well as humanity’s close connection with nature.

Whitman’s speaker continues to expand upon the concept of a universal, divine human self that transcends the temporary individual selves that each person possesses. He suggests that even the seemingly unique components of the individual self—in this case, a person’s thoughts—stem from this universal self, thus rendering them “nothing, or next to nothing.” His own thoughts do not belong to him; they have been thought by every person in the past, present, and future.

The speaker’s declaration of love for the black laborer would have been controversial in Whitman’s time, as slavery was still legal when “Song of Myself” was first published. Yet, the divine, universal human self loves every other person and living thing—thus indicating that everyone is divine and lovable.

Whitman reverses the gendered roles usually established by Western voyeurism, in which men secretly watch naked women. Here, the wealthy-yet-lonely woman watches a group of men bathing by the shore below and imagines herself joining them as the “twenty-ninth bather.” Whitman’s portrayal of this particular scene was considered controversial at the time because of its celebration of eroticism alongside the acknowledgment of female desire and sexuality.

Whitman’s speaker refers to his universal self, which—unlike his individual self—never dies. His universal self transcends the physical body, and therefore cannot be “contain’d between my hat and boots.” Nor is this universal self limited to existing only on earth; it is eternal and engages with everything in creation. Whitman suggests that everyone possesses this innate divinity.

Whitman’s speaker again establishes a strong boundary between the individual self, which is as temporary as the trivial details discussed by the “trippers and askers,” and the transcendent universal self. Everyday matters and even serious conflicts are not part of the universal “Me” that witnesses the “turbulence” of daily life. Instead, this greater Self is immortal in part because of its detachment and because it is renewed from generation to generation and never fixed to the present moment.

Whitman’s speaker establishes his individualism by asserting that his self is separate from the “perfumes,” which represent other people, that fill “houses,” “rooms,” and “shelves.” Though the speaker feels an intense attraction to these other perfumes, he recognizes that he will become intoxicated, suggesting that allowing himself to become immersed in the other perfumes will erase his individuality. Nature, however, is “odorless,” and he experiences true self-expression by becoming “undisguised and naked” beside the bank in the woods.