If my essay seems like one continual strain to attain the unattainable, to
compass and define Whitman, who will not be compassed and defined, I can
only say that I regret it, but could not well help it. Talking about
Whitman, Symonds said, was like talking about the universe, and it is so.
There is somewhat incommensurable in his works. One may not hope to speak
the final word about him, to sum him up in a sentence. He is so palpable,
so real, so near at hand, that the critic or expounder of him promises
himself an easy victory; but before one can close with him he is gone. He
is, after all, as subtle and baffling as air or light.
... "I will certainly elude you,
Even while you should think you had unquestionably caught me, behold!
Already you see I have escaped from you."
It is probably this characteristic which makes Whitman an irrepressible
figure in literature; he will not down for friend or foe. He escapes from
all classification, and is larger than any definition of him that has yet
been given. How many times has he been exploded by British and American
critics; how many times has he been labeled and put upon the shelf, only
to reappear again as vigorous and untranslatable as ever!