Dear friend, let me warn you somewhat about myself,
I give you fair warning before you attempt me further,
I am not what you supposed, but far different—
Do you suppose you will find in me your ideal?
You must not construct such an unauthorized and imaginary ideal figure,
And so devotedly invest your loving nature in it,
How many have fondly supposed what you are supposing now—only to be disappointed,
I am by no means that benevolent, equable, happy creature you portray,
Nor do those know me best who admire me and vauntingly praise me.

O admirers, praise not me—compliment not me—you make me wince,
Do you think I am trusty and faithful?
Do you see no further than this façade?
I am no angel by a long shot.
Maybe one is now reading this who knows some wrong-doing of my past life—
I see what you do not, I know what you do not,
No one knows what is hidden away in me as I do.
Let others deny the evil their enemies charge against them—but how can I the like?
Nothing ever has been or ever can be charged against me half as bad as the evil I really am.

Ah, if the flesh could but act what my rational mind, in its moments of clear inspiration, aspires to, how much better I should be!
Though to most men reason does not come at all—I am impressed with the general lack of it;
There seems to be the spice of the gambler in all of us,
We’d do anything to get out of the beaten track—even commit crimes!

A truthful history of any individual means to bring out folly, mistake, error, crime, devilishness, poison. There are in me, too, as much as in anyone, wild growths of poison flowers, mad passions of villainy, to be fought and thrown in the defence of virtue. How could Walt Whitman have taken the attitude toward evil, and things evil, which is behind every page of his utterance in “Leaves of Grass”—so different on that subject from every writer known—unless he enfolded all that evil within him? 

How many faults have I! How many weaknesses!
What foul thought but I think it—or have in me the stuff out of which it is thought?
What in darkness in bed at night, alone or with a companion, not a star shining, all dark and desolate?
Stuffed with the stuff that is coarse, and stuffed with the stuff that is fine,
Do you think I cannot remember my own stuff of wrong-doing,
My many faults and derelictions, foolish and outlaw’d deeds?

I am he who knew what it was to be evil, I too knitted the old knot of contrariety,
I have been sly, thievish, mean, a prevaricator,
The words of my mouth, rude, ignorant, arrogant,
Blabb’d, blush’d, resented, lied, stole, grudg’d,
Was wayward, vain, greedy, shallow, cowardly, malignant,
Refused my love to those that gave me theirs,
Had guile, anger, lust, hot wishes I dared not speak,
Many a hungry wish told to the skies only.

And I own that I remain so yet—as if it could cease transpiring from me until it must cease.
Inside these breast-bones I lie smutch’d and choked,
Beneath this face, that appears so impassive, hell’s tides continually run,
Drops of my blood, drops of evil, native flames, flames of evil,
My wilful and savage soul’s volition.

O conscience-struck! O self-convicted!
Have I no weapon-word—some message brief and fierce—for my own rebellious self?
Much that is bad, harsh, an undutiful person, a thriftless debtor, is me,
Many an oath and promise broken—that is me,
The wolf, the snake, the hog, not wanting in me,
The cheating look, the frivolous word, the adulterous wish, not wanting,
Refusals, hates, postponements, meanness, laziness, none of these wanting.

I have a spice of wickedness in me,
A vein that makes me rejoice of my exploits with the wine now and then;
A dinner with no drink whatever seems strange to me,
I have a little jug of good Jamaica rum from which I take a sip now and then,
And there’s no too late for whiskey!
Liquor has done me a heap of good,
There’s a whole world in that bottle,
Whether right or wrong, I have it, I want it, I get it,
(I am even in favor of ginmills—not that I am friendly to gin-swilling, but for liberty’s sake.)

If I had the means of doing so I should break a bottle of champagne every day,
It has a wonderful lift for a man!
It goes through me, stirs me all up, gives me a show of strength,
I never share it with a soul.
(Luckily for me no one else seems particularly to care for champagne!
I think champagne and oysters were made for me, that they are prima facie in my domain.)

I know now why the earth is gross, tantalizing, wicked; it is for my sake,
Now I betake myself from all others, and go among criminals,
Amid the thieves and outlaws of the land.
I will play a part no longer, why should I exile myself from my companions?
Henceforth I will not deny them—for how can I deny myself?

My words stop with fugitives and them that plot and conspire. My philosophy sees a place and a time for everybody—even Judas Iscariot—yes, for all. Man is such a scamp, such a wickedee, so essentially an ignoramm, that it is hard often to stand him. Yet it is but right that the scamp should be represented. The worst man—if studied fully, exhaustively—would be found to deserve pity or compassionate affection. So much depends on circumstances—often hereditaments.

O you shunn’d persons, condemn’d by others for deeds done,
I at least do not shun you,
I come forthwith in your midst,
I will be more to you than to any of the rest,
I will be your poet.
I will make your songs, outlaw’d offenders—
A thousand varied, crafty, brutal, seam’d, and beauteous faces—
For I scan you with kindred eyes, and carry you with me the same as any.

If I have any doubts at all about “Leaves of Grass” it is in the matter of the expression of my sympathy for the underdog—the vicious, the criminal, the malignant, if there are any malignant—whether I have made my affirmative feeling about them emphatic enough.

To me, detected persons are not, in any respect, worse than undetected persons,
And are not in any respect worse than I am myself,
Who am I, that I am not on trial, or in prison?
Me, ruthless and devilish as any, that my wrists are not chained with iron?

If you become degraded, criminal, then I become so for your sake,
I embody all presences outlaw’d or suffering.
The emigrant and the exile, the criminal that stood in the box,
Convicted and sentenced murderer, with haggard face and pinion’d arms—
I feel I am of them.

The prisoner in his cell will certainly allure me,
I see myself in prison shaped like another man,
Not a mutineer walks handcuff’d to jail but I am handcuff’d to him and walk by his side,
(I am less the jolly one there, and more the silent one with sweat on my twitching lips,)
Not a youngster is taken for larceny but I go up too, and am tried and sentenced.

For me the keepers of convicts shoulder their carbines and keep watch,
It is I let out in the morning and barr’d at night,
A soul confined by bars and bands.
I walk with delinquents with passionate love, 
I belong to those convicts and prostitutes myself,
Lusts and wickedness are acceptable to me.

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 not laugh at your oaths nor jeer you,
I salute you with a significant look that you do not forget me,
Who am I that I should call you more obscene than myself?

I am she who adorn’d herself and folded her hair expectantly,
The faithful one, the prostitute,
Singing what, to the soul, entirely redeemed her,
Singing the song of prostitutes.

Lo, an outcast form, a poor dead prostitute brought,
Her corpse they deposit unclaim’d, it lies on the damp brick pavement,
The divine woman, her body, I see the body,
I look on it alone, all else I notice not.
My sympathies all go out towards the outcast,
That house once full of passion and beauty—that wondrous house—that delicate fair house—that ruin!
Fair, fearful wreck—tenement of a soul—itself a soul,
That immortal house—poor, desperate house—
More than all the rows of dwellings ever built,
Or white-domed capitol, or all the old high-spired cathedrals—
Unclaim’d, avoided house, dead house of love—house of madness and sin—crumbled, crush’d.

Because you are a prostitute, were once drunk, or a thief, diseas’d, or rheumatic,
Do you give in that you are any less immortal?
Does the light or heat pick out? Does the attraction of gravity pick out?
Not till the waters refuse to glisten for you and the leaves to rustle for you, do my words refuse to glisten and rustle for you,
Not till the sun excludes you do I exclude you.
Take one breath from my tremulous lips,
Take one tear dropt aside as I go for thought of you.

The sun shines, shines, shines,
It has no question to ask of whore, of murderer, of anyone,
It gives what it has, yielding to each after its necessity;
The universal and fluid soul impounds within itself not only all the good characters and heroes but the distorted characters, prostitutes, murderers, thieves.

You felons on trials in courts, you convicts in prison cells,
There’s no room left for malice,
I forgive you—I forgive everybody.

The felon steps forth from the prison,
Convict no more, nor shame, nor dole!
Depart—a God-enfranchis’d soul!

NEXT: CONNECTING WITH THE UNIVERSE

The texts in this anthology should NOT be cited as direct quotations from Whitman. If you want to quote from this site for something you are writing or posting, please read this first (click here).