Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)
These are the famous lines from Walt Whitman’s masterpiece “Song of Myself.” They appear near the conclusion of the poem, in the fifty-first part of the fifty-two that comprise the small epic. Much there is we could discuss about these lines, and many viewpoints we could proffer. I am here today only to discuss my own.
These lines are one of those rare cases where ‘older’ poetry has invaded the modern cultural conscious to a great degree. There are many who would recognize them or cite them, even if ignorant to their origin. I feel these lines are different than others that have invaded colloquialism; they are different than Poe’s "The Raven,” Shakespeare’s “Sonnet 18,” or even Oliver’s “Wild Geese.” There is a mysticism to Whitman that transcends mere language. His work is deep, introspective, and metaphysical. Despite the tenderness of his free verse, there is a frenetic style in his expression. His meaning is pervasive and ineffable. Even these Three Lines cover a lot of ground. Perhaps this aids their popularity: even outside the context of the great poem they provoke deep considerations about identity and being. They are among the many lines in Song of Myself that express the whole thesis of the poem in few words.
So, where do we begin?
We are all hypocrites. This is important to understand. There is nothing in us that is not, at some point, in contradiction with another aspect of our personhood. This is an obvious conclusion from Whitman’s first two lines, and he gives our paradox a direct voice in his third by (explaining) that this status of contradiction is down to the nature of existence: (we are large, we contain multitudes). We are someone different to everyone and we are someone different each day we wake and try new things. Thus, we cannot be expected to be held to others’ churlish values when we know that even they would struggle under scrutiny.
However, the lines do not excuse hypocrisy. I’ve seen many people take them out of the context of the poem, and even from the context of 51. It is ironic, given that this is the moment in the poem when Whitman shifts the burden of interpretation to the reader. I love the lines because they speak well for our humanity, but I feel they are often removed from the context of “Song of Myself”. I see people use them to excuse their hypocrisy, especially when their hypocrisy has hurt others—or more presciently, themselves. I believe Whitman would adamantly challenge this use of his words. I believe the intention of the lines is to express a deep compassion for the difficulties of living and expression. To acknowledge that, yes, we are hypocrites and that we contain paradoxes, but that these paradoxes are fundamental to how we conduct ourselves as a species. We contradict ourselves? Yes, we contradict ourselves. We are large, we contain multitudes. We are the bee sting and the honey. It is a jarring awareness of the macro presented as a microcosm; it is a compassionate analysis of human nature presented as an honest interpretation of identity.
How do we conduct ourselves well in spite of our hypocrisy? Whitman has no guiding principle, but many answers. I think the most important solution he tries to convey is exemplified in the tone of his poetry: Love. There is deep love in Whitman. Love for all of nature. Love ought to be the centre ‘round which the spokes of our being oscillate and find their support. In practicing this way, we can extend our acceptance of self to our fellow humans. There needn’t be contradiction or turmoil in the state of our loving others. We are large, we contain multitudes, and so the practice of a holistic love can bring all our being into alignment with mirth and compassion. I am trying to practice this, anyway. Yet, I sometimes contradict myself. Don’t we all?
There is no right or wrong way to interpret Whitman’s lines, but I think there are helpful and unhelpful interpretations. To take the three lines at face-value and say: I contradict myself, of course, I contradict myself—that is my way, is to deny the effort of the poem to practice a deep compassion not only for your own paradox, but for the paradox of being a member of the species. When I say to myself:
Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)
it is very much like a Zen koan to me: a practice in expanding my awareness of suffering and interbeing. Because of course we should not be hypocritical. We should take responsibility for our irrational behaviours. When we write love letters out of grief or fantasize out of fear, we should acknowledge the space in ourselves where paradox bloomed and hindered our capacity to be more than those conflictions. Because we are more than our paradoxes and hypocrisies: we are also the capacity to recognize them and to rise above them. We are large, we contain multitudes.
Though this piece is intended to focus only on those lines from 51, I also want to reference these lines from the final part of “Song of Myself,” 52:
I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.
These are also famous to those who have read Whitman and know his poetry. To me, they form a perfect expansion to the three lines from 51. We’re verbs, ever moving. We struggle. We are at battle with ourselves most days. We cannot untangle the minutiae of our being or ever hope to untangle others’ perceptions of us. Yet, we do not have to be defined by any of this hopeless paradox. We can live a middle way and acknowledge our falsehoods as ineffable truth while ignoring others’ efforts to define us. We cannot be defined, only refined over and over. That is the contradiction Whitman knew: we cannot be stagnant. This is a source of suffering, but it is also the remedy. When we fall in love, we become stagnant; when we experience success, we become stagnant; when we are heartbroken, we become stagnant. We see these things in terms of finality, or we hope for finality, but there is no such thing; for, things fall apart. All is not a bit tamed; all is untranslatable. Thus, we must have the tenacity to pursue our inner nature as paradoxical, thinking animals capable of compassion and gratitude. We must sound our barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.
In reading poetry, it is customary to interpret meaning on the terms of one’s own experience. I think this is a beginner’s approach, natural and comfortable, but poetry was not written on the terms of our own experience or for our meaning alone. It was written by another, and they were their own multitude of paradox, vice, and love & suffering. What is noble in reading is to hold space for all the meaning we do not have and all the experiences that are not our own. This brings us closer to the practice of poetry: to explore meaning and the nature of perception. It is especially important—if pedantic—to be mindful of how we use our quotations. It is not enough to merely cite a phrase we enjoy because we find a bit of meaning there. We must understand our meaning also.