Krishna, Whitman, Nietzsche, Sartre (KWNS) |
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Whitman - Part One |
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Krishna, Whitman, Nietzsche, Sartre
Introduction:
Pure Consciousness Mysticism
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2.1 Introduction In this chapter
we will focus on Walt Whitman and his Leaves of Grass, examining
it from the perspective of Pure Consciousness Mysticism. We will also
look at how Whitman represents the possible development of what can be
termed nature mysticism, and to help understand the particular embraciveness
of Whitman's work we will also look at the ideas of the modern British
mystics Douglas Harding. Whitman is generally known as a poet, and perhaps
one of the best American poets of the 19th Century, but with no particular
religious emphasis. The poets and authors of the beat generation (Jack
Kerouak and Allen Ginsberg for example) are sometimes seen as his inheritors,
but they have only taken some of the outward imagery, mainly that of the
open road. It was his contemporary, Richard Maurice Bucke, who, more than
anyone, saw a mystic dimension to Whitman and cited him in his book Cosmic
Consciousness [1] as
the best example of his kind, though he was often ridiculed for his enthusiasm
for this cosmic dimension in Whitman (R.C. Zaehner called him fatuous
and silly [2]). Comrade, this is no book, Who touches this touches a man, (Is it night? are we alone?), It is I you hold and who holds you. [3]
"Just as here cruelty and sympathy ring true, and do not mix or interfere with one another, so did the Greeks and Romans keep all their sadnesses and gladnesses unmingled and entire. ... Walt Whitman's verse, 'What is called good is perfect, and what is called bad is just as perfect', would have been mere silliness to them". [9] Whatever James found laudable in this respect in the Greeks, he found missing in Whitman's 'outpourings'. Whitman appears too brash; "his gospel has a touch of bravado and an affected twist". Zaehner, a more recent writer on mysticism, classed Whitman with the 'nature mystics', more of which later. 2.2 Whitman's Life Whitman was
born in 1819 in Long Island, USA (Ramakrishna in 1836). His mother was
a Quaker and his father a carpenter (a fact sometimes alluded to in Christ-comparisons).
Whitman had only a simple education, but became a teacher, a printer's
assistant, then editor of various newspapers, and writer of prose and
poetry. His mother's Quaker influence, and the natural surroundings of
Long Island were undoubted influences on him, but his evolution into the
writer of Leaves is unchartable; in the 1984 preface to Gay Wilson
Allen's critical biography Allen considers that the secret of this transformation
during his early thirties has eluded all the biographers. [10] Whitman's instinct for writing led him to publish numerous
articles, and some early novels, all of which were so eclipsed by his
Leaves that none remain in print today, and are universally considered
mediocre. For Bucke however the explanation of the transformation was
simple: Whitman had entered cosmic consciousness. I first heard of him among the sufferers on the Peninsula after a battle there. Subsequently I saw him, time and again, in the Washington hospitals, or wending his way there, with a basket or haversack on his arm, and the strength of beneficience suffusing his face. His devotion surpassed the devotion of woman. It would take a volume to tell of his kindness, tenderness, and thoughtfulness. Never shall I forget one night when I accompanied him on his rounds through a hospital filled with those wounded young Americans whose heroisms he has sung in deathless numbers. There were three rows of cots, and each cot bore its man. When he appeared, in passing along, there was a smile of affection and welcome on every face, however wan, and his presence seemed to light up the place as it might be lighted by the presence of the God of Love. From cot to cot they called him, often in tremulous tones or whispers; they embraced him; they touched his hand; they gazed at him. To one he gave a few words of cheer; for another he wrote a letter home; to others he gave an orange, a few comfits, a cigar, a pipe and tobacco, a sheet of paper or a postage-stamp, all of which and many other things were in his capacious haversack. From another he would receive a dying message for mother, wife, or sweetheart; for another he would promise to go an errand; to another, some special friend very low, he would give a manly farewell kiss. He did the things for them no nurse or doctor could do, and he seemed to leave a benediction at every cot as he passed along. The lights had gleamed for hours in the hospital that night before he left it, and, as he took his way toward the door, you could hear the voices of many a stricken hero calling, 'Walt, Walt, Walt! come again! come again!' [11] Whitman was greatly affected by these experiences, as the following comments in letters to his mother showed: Mother, I have real pride in telling you that I have the consciousness of saving quite a number of lives by keeping the men from giving up, and being a good deal with them. The men say it is so, and the doctors say it is so; and I will candidly confess I can see it is true, though I say it myself. I know you will like to hear it, mother so I tell you. [12] In a later letter he says: Nothing of ordinary misfortune seems as it used to, and death itself has lost all its terrors; I have seen so many cases in which it was so welcome and such a relief. [13] In 1865 he
was appointed as a clerk in the Department of the Interior, only to be
dismissed shortly afterwards when it was discovered that he was the author
of Leaves of Grass. Whitman's friend William Douglas O'Connor published
his defence of Whitman and attacked the Secretary of the Interior, James
Harlan, for dismissing him (the pamphlet may have been the first time
that the epithet 'The Good Grey Poet' was associated with Whitman). Secretary
Harman of the State Department had sacked Whitman from his recent appointment
as a clerk for "being the author of an indecent book", and went
so far as to say that even if the President had ordered it he would not
re-instate him. Bucke reported that a friend had been with Abraham Lincoln
when Whitman passed outside the window of the East Room at the White House
and described Lincoln's assessment of Whitman as follows. The President
asked who he was, and was told that it was Walt Whitman, author of Leaves
of Grass. 'Whitman "went by quite slow, with his hands in the
breast pockets of his overcoat, a sizeable felt hat on, and his head pretty
well up."' The President, 'says nothing, but took a good look until
Walt Whitman was quite by. Then he says (I can't give you his way of saying
it but it was quite emphatic and odd) "Well, he looks like
a man." He said it pretty loud, but in a sort of absent way,
and with the emphasis on the words I have underscored.' [14]
Whitman in turn had great respect for the President and on his assassination
in April 1865 wrote 'When Lilacs Last in the dooryard Bloom'd', a great
elegy for the dead man, and included it amongst a series of poems in the
section of Leaves called 'Memories of President Lincoln'. City of orgies, walks of joys, ... Nor to converse with learn'd persons, or bear my share in the soiree or feast; Not those, but as I pass O Manhattan, your frequent and swift flash of eyes offering me love, Offering me response to my own these repay me, Lovers, continual lovers, only repay me. If this were
the only poem by Whitman (and of which I have left out the bulk), one
would think it fantasy, but one gradually realises, reading the rest of
Leaves, and the impressions Whitman made on his friends, that Whitman
loved and was loved on a scale that most of us cannot understand, or at
least not outside of a religious context. Bucke describes the impact Whitman
had on a friend (who had been reading Leaves) after only some hundred
words from the poet: "but shortly after leaving, a state of mental
exaltation set in ... compared to slight intoxication by champagne ...
or falling in love." The state lasted about six weeks and left a
permanent change in the mind of this person. [16] He never spoke deprecatingly about any nationality or class of men or time in the world's history, or feudalism, or against any trades or occupations not even against any animals, insects, plants, or inanimate things nor any of the laws of Nature, or any of the results of those laws, such as illness, deformity or death. He never complains or grumbles either at the weather, pain, illness, or at anything else. He never in conversation, in any company, or under any circumstances, uses language that could be thought indelicate. (Of course he has used language in his poems which has been thought indelicate, but none that is so.) [17] Bucke concluded:
"Perhaps, indeed, no man has ever lived who liked so many things
and disliked so few as Walt Whitman." This is a key insight into
the man, and this quality comes over in his poems in such a way that any
lengthy immersion in them either provokes this quality in the reader,
or leaves them cold and hostile. Whitman liked children, and they him;
he made a habit in later life of attending a local school twice a week
just to play with the children and tell them stories. It was not unusual
on a hot summer's day to find a child fast asleep in his lap in a meadow. "For young and old his touch had a charm that cannot be described, and if it could, then the description could not be believed except by those who know him either personally or through Leaves of Grass. This charm (physiological more than psychological), if understood, would explain the whole mystery of the man and how he produces such effects, not only upon the well, but among the sick and wounded." [18] Bucke recalls
a distant relative of Whitman, while agreeing with Bucke's views on Whitman's
gentler qualities, was quite conversant with a 'deepest sterness and hauteur'
in him, now mastered in older age, 'a combination of hot blood and fighting
qualities'. For your life adhere to me, (I may have to be persuaded many times before I consent to give myself really to you, but what of that? Must not Nature be persuaded many time?) No dainty dolce affettuoso I, Bearded, sun-burnt, gray-neck'd, forbidding, I have arrived, To be wrestled with as I pass for the solid prizes of the universe, For such I afford whoever can persevere to win them. (Starting from Paumanok, v. 15) Burroughs said of Whitman's appearance: With all his rank masculinity, there was a curious feminine undertone in him which revealed itself in the quality of his voice, the delicate texture of his skin, the gentleness of his touch and ways, the attraction he had for children and the common people. [19] Also: The sea, too, had laid its hand upon him, as I have already suggested. He never appeared so striking and impressive as when seen upon the beach. His large and tall gray figure looked at home, and was at home upon the shore. The simple, strong, flowing lines of his face, his always clean fresh air, his blue absorbing eyes, his commanding presence, and something pristine and elemental in his whole expression, seemed at once to put him en rapport with the sea. [20] Burroughs
tells of a trip in 1879 or '80 where Whitman visited red Indian prisoners
in the company of well-known politicians and government officials (yet
another example of Whitman's inclination to simply be part of events with
which he had no formal business). The sheriff explained to the Indians
who the distinguished men were, but they paid little attention as they
filed past until Whitman brought up the rear. The old chief looked at
him steadily, then extend his hand and said "How." All the other
Indians followed suit. [21] I know not what talisman Walt Whitman carries unless it be an unexcluding friendliness and goodness which is felt upon his approach like magnetism; but I know that in the subterranean life of cities, amongst the worse roughs, he goes safely; and I could recite instances where hands that, in mere wantonness of ferocity, assault anybody, raised against him, have of their own accord been lowered almost as quickly, or, in some cases, been dragged promptly down by others; this, too, I mean, when he and the assaulting gang were mutual strangers. I have seen singular evidence of the mysterious quality which not only guards him, but draws to him with intuition, rapid as light, simple and rude people, as to their natural mate and friend. I remember, as I passed the White House with him one evening, the startled feeling with which I saw the soldier on guard there a stranger to us both, and with something in his action that curiously proved that he was a stranger suddenly bringing his musket to the "present", in military salute to him, quickly mingling with this respect due to his colonel, a gesture of greeting with the right hand as to a comrade; grinning, meanwhile, good fellow, with shy, spontaneous affection and deference; his ruddy, broad face glowing in the flare of the lampions. [29] The picture
that we build up from these accounts of Whitman is of an exceptional man,
but, for Pure Consciousness Mysticism, his personality is not of primary
concern, any more than the Krishna's personality is of primary concern.
However the picture of Whitman as a man is important as a background to
Leaves, and Leaves is of importance in the way that it illuminates
the infinite and the eternal. It is Whitman's unique embraciveness in
his poetry that makes it important to have a picture of his life and influence
on those who came into contact with him; his embraciveness presents a
challenge to the common view of how a mystic can live in the world and
it is important that we do not see it as just a literary device. Here are some quotes from those who were against Leaves of Grass. The Brooklyn Daily Times carried an article on September 29th 1855 with the following comments (all the following extracts are from Bucke's biography of Whitman): "This poet celebrates himself, and that is the way he celebrates all. He comes to no conclusions , and does not satisfy the reader. He certainly leaves him what the serpent left the woman and the man, the taste of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, never to be erased again. What good is to argue about egotism? There can be no two thoughts about Walt Whitman's egotism. That is what he steps out of the crowd and turns and faces them for." An example
of a section that 'comes to no conclusions' in Leaves of Grass
is verse 34 of "Song of Myself", where he describes the massacre
of four hundred and twelve young soldiers in Texas after surrendering
to the enemy. He describes the slaughter neutrally, other than to call
the men "Large, turbulent, generous, handsome, proud and affectionate";
he says, "The work commenced about five o'clock and was over by eight".
It is astonishing the first time one reads it in its lack of condemnation
or outrage, but as one gets to know Leaves, it seems quite in keeping
with the rest, and in keeping with the mystic's deeply known understanding
of the eternal, as Krishna explains to Arjuna. Perhaps Hubert Selby Junior's
descriptions of his tenement dwellers in Last Exit to Brooklyn
has taken the cue from Whitman: quite appalling scenes of every-day human
brutality, but in an odd way made tender by the lack of judgement that
the author conveys: a compassion from dispassion. As in many of the adverse
criticisms of Whitman made at the time, there is often a perceptiveness
in them. The comment made that Whitman "steps out of the crowd and
turns and faces them" (for his egotism) is somehow a vivid and graphical
portrait of his stance, though as to the egotism, that is for each person
to make up their minds on. "Is it possible that the most prudish nation in the world will adopt a poet whose indecencies stink in the nostrils? We hope not; and yet there is a probability, and we will show you why, that this Walt Whitman will not meet with the stern rebuke which he so richly deserves. ... Walt Whitman is as unacquainted with art, as a hog with mathematics. ... The very nature of this man's compositions excludes us from proving by extracts the truth of our remarks; but we, who are not prudish, emphatically declare that the man who wrote page 79 of The Leaves of Grass deserves nothing so richly as the public executioner's whip." Whitman was
accused by many of being 'unacquainted with art', though in fact he was
widely read in classical and contemporary literature. His poems are possibly
devoid of the artificial, which perhaps offended the more traditional
of readers, including Longfellow who said: "Well, I believe this
man might have done something if he only had a decent training and education."
[30] "We were attracted by the very singular title of the work to seek the work itself, and what we thought ridiculous in the title is eclipsed in the pages of this heterogeneous mass of bombast, egotism, vulgarity, and nonsense. The beastliness of the author is set forth in his own descriptions of himself, and we can conceive of no better reward than the lash for such a violation of decency as we have before us." It was Boston's District Attorney that turned the revulsion felt by the moralists into the only actual banning of the book. The New York Criterion in November 10th 1855 wrote: "Thus then, we leave this gathering of muck to the laws which, certainly, if they fulfil their intent, must have power to suppress such obscenity. As it is entirely destitute of wit, there is no probability that any would, after this exposure, read it in the hope of finding that; and we trust no on will require further evidence, for, indeed, we do not believe there is a newspaper so vile that would print confirmatory extracts." One almost
regrets the passing of Victorian prudery, that made these passages possible;
these and many more, while amusing to us, also are oddly instructive about
Whitman. Possibly the strangest attack on Whitman came however from D.H.Lawrence
in 1923 in Studies in Classic American Literature. Lawrence cannot
stand that Whitman ACHES WITH A MOROUS LOVE (Lawrence's capitals): it
takes a steam-engine to do that. Lawrence wails: "Oh Walter, Walter,
what have you done with it? With your own individual self? For it sounds
as if it had all leaked out of you, leaked into the universe." [31]
Lawrence cannot stand it! He cannot stand that Whitman can become
the universe or anything in it, and in particular not a 'greasy Eskimo'.
If Lawrence's attack were not so funny, and in an odd way to the point,
one would be rather ashamed of him. Lawrence does get to the heart of
Whitman in what he rejects, and we will consider this issue of identity
and its apparent loss later on. "Dear Sir, I am not blind to the worth of the wonderful gift of 'Leaves of Grass'. I find it the most extraordinary piece of wit and wisdom that America has yet contributed." Without asking Emerson, Whitman had the letter published in the New York Tribune in 1855, and it was this and Emerson's word-of-mouth enthusiasm that may well have enabled Leaves to survive its early years. The two men met, but Whitman and Emerson were poles apart in their temperament, Emerson being a refined establishment intellectual, graduating in divinity, and pastor for a time at the prestigious Second Unitarian Church in Boston, while Whitman was a carpenter's son and a man of the rough outdoors. Whitman took Emerson for a beer in a rowdy pub, but despite this indelicate introduction, and Emerson's public annoyance that Whitman should publish his letter without permission, they saw each other, albeit infrequently, until Emerson's death. Emerson was ambivalent in his attitude to Leaves, as the following letter to Carlyle in 1856 shows: "One book, last summer, came out in New York, a nondescript monster, which yet had terrible eyes and buffalo strength, and was indisputably American which I thought to send you; but the book throve so badly with the few to whom I showed it, and wanted good morals so much, that I never did. Yet I believe now again, I shall. It is called Leaves of Grass and was written and printed by a journeyman printer in Brooklyn, New York, named Walter Whitman; and after you have looked into it, if you think, as you may, that it is only an auctioneer's inventory of a warehouse, you can light your pipe with it." Emerson also referred to Leaves as a singular blend of the Bhagavad Gita and the New York Tribune, and we shall see some of those similarities to the Gita later on. Whether Carlyle lit his pipe on Leaves, I do not know, though Whitman was an admirer of his, excepting the gloominess of his later work. Whitman gives us this interesting insight into his relationship with Emerson (and at the same time a foretaste of how he relates to Nature, in this case trees) in the following passage: 10 - 13 October [1881]: I spend a good deal of time on the Common, these delicious days and nights every mid-day from 11.30 to about 1 and almost every sunset another hour. I know all the big trees, especially the old elms along Tremont and Beacon streets, and have come to a sociable-silent understanding with most of them, in the sunlit air, (yet crispy-cool enough), as I saunter along the wide unpaved walks. Up and down this breadth by Beacon street, between these same old elms, I walk'd for two hours, of a bright sharp February mid-day twenty-one years ago, with Emerson, then in his prime, keen, physically and morally magnetic, arm'd at every point, and when he chose, wielding the emotional just as well as the intellectual. During those two hours he was the talker and I the listener. It was an argument-statement, reconnoitring, review, attack, and pressing home, (like an army corps in order, artillery, cavalry, infantry,) of all that could be said against that part (and a main part) in the construction of my poems, 'Children of Adam'. More precious than gold to me that dissertation it afforded me, ever after, this strange and paradoxical lesson; each part of E's statement was unanswerable, no judge's charge ever more complete or convincing, I could never hear the points better put and then I felt down in my soul the clear and unmistakable conviction to disobey all, and pursue my own way. 'What have you to say then to such things?' said E., pausing in conclusion. 'Only that while I can't answer them at all, I feel more settled than ever to adhere to my own theory, and exemplify it,' was my candid response. Whereupon we went and had a good dinner at the American House. And thenceforward I never waver'd or was touch'd with qualms, (as I confess I had been two or three times before.) [33] Anne Gilchrist,
herself respected in literary circles, by Carlyle, Swinbourne, and Tennyson
amongst others, read one of Rossetti's imprints of Leaves, and
fell in love with it, writing to Rossetti that she was spellbound and
could read no other book. In 1870 she published an anonymous article in
the Boston Radical called 'An Englishwoman's Estimate of Walt Whitman',
which gave unreserved praise for Leaves of Grass. Whitman forwarded
a letter and photograph to her. The following year, on Rossetti's encouragement
she wrote directly to Whitman with what amounted to a proposal of marriage,
but he responded to her letters in the most delicate of ways, saying that
he was not insensible to her love, and to accept a brief reply because
he had put himself body and soul into Leaves, "my best letter".
He concluded: "Enough that there surely exists so beautiful and delicate
a relation, accepted by both of us with joy." Anne Gilchrist was
not put off and wrote further letters until Whitman was forced to write
in 1872: "Let me warn you about myself and about yourself also, you
must not construct such an unauthorized and imaginary figure and call
it W.W., and so devotedly invest your loving nature in it. The actual
W.W. is a very plain personage and entirely unworthy of your devotion." "Wives and mothers will learn through this poet that there is a rejoicing grandeur and beauty there wherein their hearts have so longed to find it; where foolish men, traitors to themselves, poorly comprehending the grandeur of their own or the beauty of a woman's nature, have taken such pains to make her believe there was none nothing but miserable discrepancy." It is partly this reinforcement of the sense of 'miserable discrepancy', that makes Nietzsche and his work suspect. More of that later, but for now, how superb does Whitman seem! Throughout Leaves he never leaves women out, and never diminishes them. Take for example this passage: The prostitute draggles her shawl, her bonnet bobs on her tipsy and pimpled neck, The crowd laugh at her blackguard oaths, the men jeer and wink to each other, (Miserable! I do no laugh at your oaths nor jeer you;) (from Song of Myself) Compare this with what D.H.Lawrence would prefer him to say: 'Look at that prostitute! Her nature has turned evil under her mental lust for prostitution. She has lost her soul. She knows it herself. She likes to make men lose their souls. If she tried to make me lose my soul, I would kill her. I wish she may die.' [34] It is hard not to despise Lawrence for this, and for it not to wipe out every tender and perceptive comment he made on the relationships between men and women. Perhaps Lawrence just chose to empty his bile on a soft target (American 'pretensions' at literature) knowing that his British audience would lap it up. But Lawrence looks paranoid, spiteful, and churlish next to Whitman's generosity. Whitman does not talk about relationships in any analytical way, he just includes women in all his gestures: I am the poet of the woman the same as the man, And I say it is as great to be woman as to be a man, And I say there is nothing greater than the mother of men. (Song Of Myself, v. 21) Is he just making an effort in his poetry to include women? It would be hard to do on such a grand scale if it were not his nature one suspects, and this is supported by a typical remark to Bucke on quite another subject (drink): "[alcohol] takes away all the reserved control, the power of mastership, and therefore offends against that splendid pride in himself or herself which is fundamental in every man or woman worth anything." Whitman's
inclusion of women is not a feminist issue in this book, but rather it
relates to a characteristic of a person approaching the transcendent:
a distance from one's sexual identity, and the sense of conflict between
the sexes that so gripped D.H.Lawrence for example. What of Whitman and
women in his own life, other than Anne Gilchrist? Bucke once asked him
why he had not married "Did you remain single of set purpose?"
Whitman replied: "No, I have hardly done anything in my life of set
purpose, in the way you mean." He added, "I suppose the chief
reason why I never married must have been a overmastering passion for
entire freedom, unconstraint; I had an instinct against forming ties that
would bind me." Bucke commented: "Yes, it was the instinct of
self-preservation. Had you married at the usual age, Leaves of Grass
would never have been written." Sometimes with one I love I fill myself with rage for fear I effuse unreturn'd love, But now I think there is no unreturn'd love, the pay is certain one way or another, (I loved a certain person ardently and my love was not return'd, Yet out of that I have written these songs.) The 'sting of slighted love' often appears in Leaves. Biographers make much of Whitman's relationships with younger men, and there is a homosexual reading made of some of the Calamus poems, but Whitman denied this, claiming in a letter to John Addington Symonds that he had sired six illegitimate children (1890). Carpenter devoted a whole chapter in his book on Whitman to the subject of his alleged children, of which he tells us only four had survived, but that one had produced a grandchild. The question of Whitman's sexuality is not relevant to Pure Consciousness Mysticism, but it is amusing to note that the poet Allen Ginsberg (a long-time Buddhist) recently claimed on British television to have a homosexual lineage with Whitman. Ginsberg says that he slept with Neil Cassidy, who slept with Gavin Arthur, the grandson of Chester Arthur (president of the USA from 1881 to 1885), who had slept with Edward Carpenter, who claimed to have slept with Whitman (though I have found no such claim in his writings). This may or may not be nonsense, Ginsberg admitting that Whitman 'wasn't candid about his physical loves if he had any'.
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Krishna, Whitman, Nietzsche, Sartre
Introduction:
Pure Consciousness Mysticism
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