2.	Whitman

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 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).
A good reason for English-speaking readers to immerse themselves in Leaves of Grass is that it is in the original, in an English only slightly removed from contemporary usage. The Gita suffers from being written in Sanskrit, a language which is not spoken today, and is reputed to be of great subtlety and poetry, and especially suited to expressions of the transcendent. This means that one is to a great degree at the mercy of the translator, whose personality one is indirectly encountering when reading the Gita. I have three translations, which goes some way to reducing the vagaries of an individual translator, but cannot compensate for not reading it in the original. No such problem exists with Leaves of Grass: you are meeting Walt Whitman directly, and some of the problems of interpretation of Leaves are in fact just because of the deliberate attempt by Whitman to be present in his book. Gay Wilson Allen points this out in the introduction to his definitive modern biography of Whitman, citing this verse:

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.

We also have many accounts from his contemporaries of Whitman the man, the most notable being two biographies, one by Bucke published in 1883, and another by the naturalist John Burroughs in 1894. The English social reformer Edward Carpenter also wrote from personal experiences of Whitman, as did the American writer, William Douglas O'Connor, in a polemic defence of Whitman.
While Bucke and (to a lesser extent) Burroughs and Carpenter saw Whitman as an archetypal mystic others were less sure: Evelyn Underhill considered that Whitman, 'amongst modern men possessed in a supreme degree the permanent sense of the glory, the "light rare, untellable, lighting the very light"' (this quote is from 'The Prayer of Columbus' in Leaves). But she could not call him a pure mystic, not possessing the full form of illumination. William James included Whitman in a chapter of his Varieties of Religious Experience entitled 'The Religion of the Healthy-Minded'. James was influenced by Bucke (which Zaehner seemed to regret), but lamented the lack in Whitman of Greek clarity about good and evil: 

"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".  

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. 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.
Whitman's habit of mixing with the ordinary folk of Long Island, Manhattan, or wherever he was, gave him the subject matter and broad appeal that the more literary-circle types lacked. He mingled with workmen and took pleasure in doing their work with or for them, in a way that we would find very odd today, with our regimented and bureaucratic world of qualifications and identity passes. He liked to steer the vessels of friendly captains in Brooklyn harbour, but gave up eventually when he nearly caused an accident. He was particularly fond of the Broadway stage[coach] drivers, as he found them 'uncommonly talented' with their horses in the most difficult of thoroughways, and would join them up on the box — he spent the whole of a winter in the 1850s driving a stage for a sick driver, so that the driver 'might lie without starving his family.' Towards the end of the 1850s he was a frequent visitor to the New York Hospital where he looked after disabled drivers. Leaves of Grass brought him notoriety and fame, and through its publication he later met some of the literary notables of his age: Emerson, Thoreau, and Oscar Wilde. In 1861, when Whitman was forty-two, the American Civil War broke out, and Whitman's brother George joined up; he was injured at the Battle of Fredericksburg, and Walter travelled to be with him. He spent time with the wounded, comforting the injured and dying young soldiers, and also spent much of his spare income (which was small in the first place) on treats for them. At Fredericksburg the field hospitals consisted of shabby tents, where the wounded were lucky if the blankets they lay on had a layer of leaves or grass between them and the hard ground. He not only tended to the wounded but mixed with the soldiers in the camp in his usual informal way and commented that he found himself 'always well used'. A correspondent of the New York Herald wrote this about Whitman's ministrations:

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!' 

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. 

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. 

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.' 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'.
  In 1868 an edited version of Leaves was published in England by William Michael Rossetti. The was read by Anne Gilchrist, widow of Alexander Gilchrist (the biographer of William Blake), who then received the unexpurgated version and becomes one of its champions, leading her to visit Whitman in 1876. Meanwhile, in 1873, and at the age of only 54 Whitman suffered his first paralytic stroke, leaving him lame. His mother died in the same year, and Whitman was now far from the peak of health and good cheer that he described in 'Song of Myself'. He visited Emerson on his sick-bed in 1881, a year before Emerson's death, and in 1882 met Oscar Wilde. In 1883, Richard Maurice Bucke, by now a close friend of Whitman's, published his biography, which included many letters and articles from both hostile and friendly press. In 1884 Whitman was finally able to buy his own house in Mickle Street in Camden, from profits made from Leaves. He lived here until his death in 1892, known to all as the 'Sage of Mickle Street'. It was four years before his death that a second stroke rendered him, at the age of 73, almost immobile, though he continued to receive a stream of visitors, many of them writers.
In chapter two of Bucke's biography he describes Whitman while he was Bucke's guest in Canada, or while travelling, having written the greater part of the biography in the same room as its subject. In fact Whitman was very much against the idea of a biography, but, when Bucke told him that was determined to go ahead and might as well help him get it right, Whitman finally agreed and oversaw its development. According to Bucke Whitman had penetrating blue eyes, ears that were large and handsome: his face was the noblest; he was extraordinarily physically attractive; everyone who met him seemed to love him. That people were drawn to him comes out in 'City of Orgies' (all the following extracts from Leaves are Jerome Loving's edition):

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.
Bucke described Whitman's favourite occupation as strolling or sauntering about outdoors, and in company would comment favourably on almost anything, though inclined more to silence. Bucke says:

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.) 

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. 
Whitman was fastidiously clean in his body and clothes, though he wore unfashionable and plain garments, with no concessions to the refinements of others. Bucke talks about his physical presence:

"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." 

  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'.
John Burroughs' descriptions of Whitman echo those of Bucke; Burroughs shared a tent with Whitman in the army, and found him large-looking, always clean, kind, but able to be freezing in his manner, and well able to fend off bores. Burroughs' biography and analysis of Whitman is as unreservedly favourable to him as is Bucke's, but written in a more restrained way, perhaps fitting Burroughs' occupation as a naturalist and writer on nature. Burroughs, like many others, grew to love Leaves over a period, initially nervous that Whitman was the 'poet of evil too'. He commented that no other poet of the era could had given him 'the solid prizes of the Universe', referred to in Whitman's well-known lines:

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. 

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. 

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.
Edward Carpenter was an English social reformer and prolific writer who visited Whitman twice, once in 1877 and once in 1886. He recorded his first impressions in Days With Walt Whitman.

Meanwhile in that first ten minutes I was becoming conscious of an impression which subsequently grew even more marked — the impression, namely, of an immense vista or background to his personality. If I had thought before (and I do not know that I had) that Whitman was eccentric, unbalanced, violent, my first interview produced quite a contrary effect. No one could be more considerate, I may almost say courteous; no one could have more simplicity of manner and freedom from egotistic wrigglings; and I never met anyone who gave me more the impression of knowing what he was doing than he did. Yet away and beyond all this I was aware of a certain radiant power in him, a large benign affluence and inclusiveness, as of the sun, which filled out the place where he was — yet with something of reserve and sadness in it too, and a sense of remoteness and inaccessibility.

Carpenter's allusion to the sun may remind us of how Arjuna saw the sun in Krishna, and Harvey in Meera. The following passages tell us more about Whitman, and perhaps also about Carpenter's own sensitivity.

When we went in to dinner Mr. Stafford was already seated; I think he was about to say grace. Walt, with greater grace, stood for a moment bending over him from behind, and clasped Stafford's head in his great hands; then passed on in silence. What a large sweet presence — so benign, yet so determined!	

In India where the behaviour of the enlightened ones has been under scrutiny for thousands of years, the use of the hands has been formalised in a system of mudras, or gestures, each with its own meaning. We see it quite spontaneously in Ramakrishna, and in the instinct of Asit Chandmal in his tender photographs of Krishnamurti's hands. In Western religious art, the hands of saints are often stretched out in blessing, and we have a long tradition of the 'laying on of hands', but Whitman's blessing of Mr. Stafford was a simple act that came from Whitman's own nature, and widely exhibited amongst the mystics. Carpenter's comment in the following passage about nowness is relevant to the eternal quality of the mystic, and also indicative of his own mystical instincts: 

Whitman had the knack of making ordinary life enjoyable, redeeming it from commonplaceness. Instead of making you feel (as so many do) that the Present is a kind of squalid necessity to be got over as best may be, in view of something always in the future, he gave you that good sense of nowness, which imports colour and life to the thousand and one dry details of existence. 

 Carpenter did not miss the other side of Whitman either, as he tells how 'Madame Darbiney D'Aubigné' foundered on his colder shores:

She had been, she told us, all over the States and seen many celebrities, but could not return to Europe without visiting Whitman — and it was only by a piece of luck that she had found out where he was staying. However, it soon began to appear that her interest in Walt was not so great, naturally, as in herself; for after a few preliminary compliments she settled down to tell us all about the wonderful D'Aubigné family to which she belonged. It ramified all over the civilised world she said; and the name was spelt in ever so many ways, but they were all branches of the same family, they were related to each other — as her own name indeed showed. Walt listened in an amused manner, and for about ten minutes was quite decently courteous and patient. Then I suddenly perceived that his face was becoming 'precipitous'; the little woman of course was addressing him, no one else being of any importance; but he seemed to be becoming deaf, there was no speculation in his eyes; it was rather awful; for a minute or two she tried vainly to effect a lodgement for her words, to get any kind of handhold on the sheer surface, and then gathering up her tackle, she made the best of a bad job, bade a hasty good-bye and disappeared. 

On Carpenter's second visit, in 1886, Whitman had already suffered his first stroke, and had only eight years to live, a fact that sorrowed Carpenter because of the decreasing mobility and vitality of a man whose passion for life he well understood.
William Douglas O'Connor was a friend of Whitman's for many years and showed great enthusiasm for him and his work, though we may be less inclined to give his testimony the weight that Bucke, Burroughs and Carpenter deserve. O'Connor had neither the wider reading of Bucke or Carpenter, or the groundedness that Burroughs shows in his nature writings, and is even rather damaging to Whitman in an absurd short story called 'The Carpenter', in which an elderly figure, who is clearly meant to be both Whitman and Jesus, appears as deus ex machina to an ill-fated family and brings them good fortune. The story illuminates Whitman not at all, but does show the kind of sycophancy that figures like him often engender. More interesting, though probably still a little exaggerated, is this extract from O'Connor's The Good Gray Poet — A Vindication:

— 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.

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.
Leaves of Grass first appeared in 1855 and the final edition was published in 1881, having undergone many revisions and additions: it was received with reactions that ranged from adulation to shocked outrage. We must remember that this was the Victorian era, and despite the ruggedness and openness of America in some ways, it was not prepared for the earthy nature of some of Whitman's verse. The book was reviled by many who should have known better, and was even banned in Boston in 1882 (incidentally, the year he met Oscar Wilde).
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.
While Europe, including Britain, was generally more in favour of Whitman than America seemed to have been, the London Critic of 1855 was not:

"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." 
The whip appears again in the Boston Intelligence (May 3rd 1856):

 "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 AMOROUS 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." 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. Lawrence, in the same book, also makes an absurd attack on people with blue eyes, saying that they are 'never quite human'; did he know that Whitman had blue eyes? We aren't amused at the end of the 20th century by the idea that some people are less human than others, whether blue-eyed or Eskimo; nor are we amused that Huxely, Orwell, or Churchill were supporters of eugenics in the thirties. These men did not rise above their time in some respects; Whitman seemed to have in all respects.
Let us look now in more detail at contemporary appreciation of Whitman's work. Ralph Waldo Emerson, one of America's established poets of the age, was so impressed by Leaves of Grass that he wrote the now-famous letter to the author, starting off:

"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 — 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.)

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." 
Whitman received other 'love' letters, however, from men as well as women, an unlikely example being from Bram Stoker, the future author of Dracula. In 1876, some time after Whitman's stroke and the death of his mother, Anne Gilchrist arranged to come to Philadelphia with her three children, despite Whitman's attempts to put her off. He visited her with John Burroughs, and found that he liked her and her family, and even stayed for some short periods in a room she had set aside for him. His stroke had left him lame, and he looked nearer seventy than sixty. Her dream of a closer union was not realised in fact, and the Gilchrists returned to England in 1879. Anne Gilchrist's published letter praising Leaves was in contrast to the prudish comment by an American man of letters that he would not wish it to be left around "in case a woman pick it up and venture beyond the title page". She defended the manly openness about it, saying why should a man pretend to a woman's modesty? She quotes Whitman:  "The full spread pride of man is calming and excellent to the soul," continuing, "of a woman above all" (my italics). A similar thing was also said by Nietzsche, though in a way that makes us feel uncomfortable. She finished her letter with this thought, perhaps relating to her husband:

"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.' 

  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." 
  In 'Sometimes with One I Love' Whitman suggests another formative cause for Leaves:

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'.
We turn now to Bucke, Burroughs and Carpenter for appraisals of Whitman's spiritual side. Bucke introduced Whitman as "the best, most perfect, example the world has so far had of the Cosmic Sense", or cosmic consciousness, as he called it throughout his book of the same name. I think he was perfectly entitled to do so, but has naturally been a little suspect for it ever since. Bucke's analysis of the world's mystics may have been the first serious attempt (just before the end of the nineteenth century), and may have partly inspired and was certainly referred to in William James's Varieties of Religious Experience, published in 1902, and in Evelyn Underhill's Mysticism, published in 1911, and in many texts on the subject ever since. I think the subject has evolved and reached a maturity where no serious student of it could call any example of the mystic as the best or most perfect: each adds a new perspective, and each will touch some more than others. Bucke was probably more than just a serious student of mysticism however: he was Whitman's disciple, and all the intellectual rigour in the world cannot diminish the natural impulse to see one's teacher as special. (In India it has always been regarded as the greatest possible good fortune to meet such a person in one's lifetime.) A recent re-appraisal of Bucke (long overdue) by Robert May gives a good biography of Bucke and assessment of Whitman's impact on him; it also points out that the dominance of the behaviourist schools of psychology resulted in Bucke's ideas being largely ignored in the twentieth century.
  Bucke had a system however, and later commentators on mysticism have to a limited degree adopted it and expanded on it. He required that candidates for cosmic consciousness display a sense of immortality, a loss of the sense of sin and fear of death and a range of characteristics that he called a subjective light, a moral elevation, and an intellectual elevation. Moreover he required that all these, which mark what he calls cosmic consciousness, should appear fairly suddenly and in contrast to the previous nature of the person which he characterised as self-consciousness (probably intended more as the German Selbstbewusztsein than the painful sort associated with shyness etc.). He found in his survey that this transition took place in a person's mid-thirties more often than at another time in their life, and he demonstrated that Whitman underwent such a change at around the age of 35 or 36, quoting this passage in support of a transformation experience:

I believe in you my soul, the other I am must not abase itself to you,
And you must not be abased to the other.

Loafe with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat,
Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or lecture, not even the best,
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valvèd voice.

I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer morning,
How you settled you head athwart my hips and gently turn'd over upon me,
And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue to my bare-stript heart,
And reach'd till you felt my beard, and reach'd till you held my feet.

Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and knowledge that pass all the argument of the earth,
And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own,
And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own,
And that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the women my sisters and lovers,
And that a kelson of creation is love, …
							('Song of Myself', v. 5)

We should be grateful to Bucke for drawing our attention to this passage, and it has often been quoted by other commentators since Bucke, and usually with the interpretation that it was a moment of grace, or penetration by the divine. Indeed the imagery is erotic, one of penetration, but we find that erotic imagery is widespread in mysticism: the reader is referred to a survey of this in Christian and Jewish mysticism by Bernard McGinn; we shall examine oriental examples of it in the next chapter; and some of my poems in the Appendix have this quality. Certainly, if we only take Leaves as the result, the change from Whitman's previous writings is dramatic, and lends some support to Bucke's idea of a sudden transition or illumination. If we were to accept this idea, and there are many cases to support it including for example Krishnamurti's, then we also have to account for those like Krishna who seem to born with the characteristics that Bucke enumerates, and live their whole life that way.
Bucke writes, in the context of the world's religious books:

Leaves of Grass is such a book. What the Vedas were to Brahmanism, the Law and the Prophets to Judaism, the Avesta and Zend to Zoroastrianism, the Kings to Confucianism and Taoism, the Pitikas to Buddhism, the Gospels and Pauline writings to Christianity, the Quran to Mohameddanism, will Leaves of Grass be to the future of American civilisation. Those were all Gospels, they all brought good news to man, fitting his case at the period, each in its way and degree. They were all "hard sayings" and the rankest heresy at first, just as Leaves of Grass is now. By and by it too will be received, and in the course of a few hundred years, more or less, do its work and become commonplace like the rest. Then new Gospels will be written upon a still higher plane.
  In the mean time Leaves of Grass is the bible of Democracy, containing the highest exemplar of life yet furnished, and suited to the present age and America.

John Burroughs found that Whitman was "swayed by two or three great passions, and the chief of these was doubtless his religious passion." He then goes on to say, "Now there is no trace of this [traditional] religion in Whitman, and it does not seem to have left any shadow upon him. Ecclesiaticism is dead; he clears the ground for a new growth. To the priests he says: "Your day is done."" What does Burroughs think that Whitman puts in the place of Ecclesiasticism? He notes that for Whitman, "any glimpse of the farm, the shop, the household — any bit of real life, anything that carried the flavour and quality of concrete reality — was very welcome to him!" Whitman himself comments in 'Song of Myself':

And I say to mankind, Be not curious about God,
For I who am curious about each am not curious about God,
(No array of terms can say how much I am at peace about God and about death.)

Why should I wish to see God better than this day?
I see something of God each hour of the twenty-four, and each moment then,
In the faces of men and women I see God, and in my own face in the glass,
I find letters from God dropt in the street, and every one is sign'd by God's name, 
And I leave them where they are, for I know that wheresoe'er I go,
Others will punctually come for ever and ever.

Burroughs concluded that "In the past this ideal was found in the supernatural; for us and the future democratic ages, it must be found in the natural, in the now and here." On Whitman's deathbed Burroughs mused that "It is the face of an aged loving child. As I looked, it was with the reflection that, during an acquaintance of thirty-six years, I never heard from those lips a word of irritation, or depreciation of any being. I do not believe that Buddha, of whom he appeared an avatar, was more gentle to all men, women, children, and living things."
Edward Carpenter made direct analogies in the Appendix to Days With Walt Whitman between passages from Leaves of Grass and passages from the Upanishads, Buddhist texts, the Bhagavad Gita, the Tao Teh Ching, and the New Testament. He presents an interesting comparison between Whitman and an Indian seer, that probably sums up his attitude to both Whitman and Leaves.

I have two portraits — photographs — which I am fond of comparing with each other. One is of Whitman, taken in 1890; the other, taken about the same time and at the same age (seventy years), is of an Indian Gnani or seer. Both are faces of the highest interest and import; but how different! That of Whitman deeply lined, bearing the marks of life-long passion and emotion; aggressive and determined, yet wistful and tender, full of suffering and full of love, indicating serenity, yet markedly turbid and clouded, ample in brow and frame and flowing hair, as of one touching and mingling with humanity at all points — withal of a wonderful majesty and grandeur, as of the great rock (to return always to that simile) whose summit pierces at last the highest domain.
The other portrait, of a man equally aged, shows scarcely a line on the face; you might think for that and for the lithe, active form that he was not more than forty years old; a brow absolutely calm and unruffled, gracious, expressive lips, well-formed features, and eyes — the dominant characteristic of his countenance — dark and intense, and illuminated by the vision of the seer. In this face you discern command, control, gentleness, and the most absolute inward unity, serenity, and peace; no wandering emotions or passions flit across the crystal mirror of the soul; self-hood in any but the highest sense has vanished — the self has, as it were, returned to its birthplace — leaving behind the most childlike, single-hearted, uncensorious, fearless character imaginable.
Yet just here one seems to miss something in the last character — the touch of human and earthly entanglement. Here is not exactly the great loving heart which goes a few steps on the way with every child of man; here is not the ample-domed brow which tackles each new problem of life and science. Notwithstanding evident signs of culture and experience in the past, notwithstanding vast powers of concentration in any given matter or affair when necessary, the face shows that the heart and intellect have become quiescent, that interest in the actual has passed or is passing away.
								(page 49)

This passage is of particular interest to us as we consider the quality of embraciveness peculiar to Whitman, and how it may differ on the whole to that shown in Indian mysticism. We will return to this, but first we will look in more detail at Leaves of Grass itself.
2.3 Leaves of Grass

Leaves of Grass is a collection of poems on a wide range of themes, mostly descriptive of the life around Whitman in the second half of the nineteenth century, and in particular of America at that time. Whitman referred to his poems as songs (as in 'Song of Myself', one of the longer poems), and the whole of Leaves as a song of America. They are about the ordinary life of ordinary people and ordinary nature, in this way different from the Gita, with its conversation between two high-ranking individuals on the eve of a terrible war, and discussing absolutes. Yet, quite near the start Whitman quietly announces his religious intentions, though religious in no sense connected with church and creed. He first sets out the purpose of his songs: to celebrate life, himself, democracy, the female just as much as the male, great wars just as much as peace. He mentions the divine soil underneath, and the sun above, much as the Tao Te Ching talks about 'heaven and earth'. He credits all that has gone before, civilisations that have blossomed and receded, individuals who have lived and died, great masters that he has studied who will now come to study him. He mentions the immortality of the soul, he sets out that material and spiritual are equal to him, talks about the flame within him that must now burst forth, outlines his ideals of manly love, and of comradeship. He is the 'credulous man' — one who believes; he is also the poet of evil, though in fact there is no evil. Then, casually, he mentions that he starts a religion.

I too, following many and follow'd by many, inaugurate a religion, I descend into the arena,
(It may be I am destin'd to utter the loudest cries there, the winner's pealing shouts,
Who knows? they may rise from me yet, and soar above every thing.)

Each is not for its own sake,
I say the whole earth and all the stars in the sky are for religion's sake.

I say no man has ever yet been half devout enough,
None has ever yet adored or worship'd half enough,
None has begun to think how divine he himself is, and how certain the future is.

I say that the real and permanent grandeur of these States must be their religion,
Otherwise there is no real and permanent grandeur;
(Nor character nor life worthy the name without religion,
Nor land nor man or woman without religion.)

				8

What are you doing young man?
Are you so earnest, so given up to literature, science, art, amours?
These ostensible realties, politics, points?
Your ambition or business whatever it may be?

It is well — against such I say not a word, I am their poet also,
But behold! such swiftly subside, burnt up for religion's sake,
For not all matter is fuel to heat, impalpable flame, the essential life of the earth,
Any more than such are to religion.		
							(Starting From Paumanok, vs. 7 and 8)

Whitman entreats you to share with him two greatnesses of his book, Love and Democracy, but there is a third, more important.

My comrade!
For you to share with me two greatnesses, and a third one rising inclusive and more resplendent,
The greatness of Love and Democracy, and the greatness of Religion.
							(Starting From Paumanok, v. 10)

In the rest of this great sprawling text, the word religion itself is hardly mentioned, though Whitman finds the old religions did not go half far enough:

I heard what was said of the universe,
Hear it and heard it of several thousand years;
It is middling well as far as it goes — but is that all?

Magnifying and applying come I,
Outbidding at the start the old cautious hucksters,
Taking myself the exact dimensions of Jehovah,
Lithographing Kronos, Zeus his son, and Hercules his grandson,
Buying drafts of Osiris, Isis, Belus, Brahma, Buddha,
In my portfolio placing Manito loose, Allah on a leaf, the crucifix engraved,
With Odin and the hideous-faced Mexitli and every idol and image,
Taking them all for what they are worth and not a cent more,
Admitting they were alive and did the work of their days,
(They bore mites as for unfledg'd birds who have now to rise and fly and sing for themselves,)
Accepting the rough deific sketches to fill out better in myself, bestowing them freely on each man and woman I see,
Discovering as much or more in a framer framing a house, …
							('Song of Myself', v. 41)

We have seen that many have read Leaves as nothing more than arrogance, and the above passage if widely publicised would be seized upon by the religious fundamentalists as blaspheming every religion that ever existed. Yet, from the perspective of Pure Consciousness Mysticism, Leaves of Grass both justifies all that has gone before and promises a new perspective. Immersing oneself in it, as I have done for some years, does become a religious experience, as Richard Maurice Bucke found: it grew on him slowly, he says, initially leaving no mark, but on subsequent reading displaying small pockets of light, until the whole lit up for him. It is indeed a subtle and elusive thing, by whatever process this book works on an individual: perhaps it is as natural in its construction as a forest, or perhaps Whitman constructed a magic thing by design. Whitman gives us an insight into it in this conversation with Edward Carpenter (Whitman is talking first).

"What lies behind Leaves of Grass is something that few, very few, only one here and there, perhaps oftenest women, are at all in a position to seize. It lies behind almost every line but concealed, studiedly concealed; some passages left purposely obscure. There is something in my nature furtive, like an old hen! You see a hen wandering up and down a hedgerow, looking apparently quite unconcerned, but presently she finds a concealed spot, and furtively lays an egg, and comes away as though nothing had happened! That is how I felt in writing 'Leaves of Grass.' Sloane Kennedy calls me 'artful' — which about hits the mark. I think there are truths which it is necessary to envelop or wrap up." I [Carpenter] replied that all through history the old mysteries, or whatever they may have been called, had been held back; and added that probably we had something yet to learn from India in these matters. W.: "I do not myself think there is anything more to come from that source; we must rather look to modern science to open the way. Time alone can absolutely test my poems or any one's. Personally, I think that the 'something' is more present in some of my small later poems than in the 'Song of Myself'.

It is clear that Whitman himself considered Leave to be religious, or to contain the 'old mysteries', and that Bucke, Burroughs and Carpenter found him and his book comparable to any of the great teachers and teachings. To examine it for such under the PCM world-view, we need to explicitly search for the infinite, the immortal, and the embracive, but we do not have to go far into the hedgerows to find Whitman's 'eggs'.
Whitman simply keeps stating that he is this and he is that: just to bring something into his orbit is for Whitman to become it; exactly what D.H.Lawrence objected to. In Pure Consciousness Mysticism we can recognise this expansivity as the losing of personal boundaries, being careful to distinguish between the pathological inversion of this process, leading to madness, and its genuine expression in the mystics. We note already that Whitman appeared not just eminently sane to those who knew him, but a formidable character — the expansion that he expresses in Leaves is not at the expense of becoming weak-willed or at the mercy of fools. One of Whitman's simplest statements about his expanded condition is in this verse:

I pass death with the dying and birth with the new-wash'd babe, and am not contain'd between my hat and boots,
And I peruse manifold objects, no two alike and every one good,
The earth good and the stars good, and their adjuncts all good.
							(Song Of Myself, v. 7)

I am not contained between my hat and boots! This is perhaps one of the clearest and simplest expressions of the infinite to be found in mysticism, summing up the direct experience of the mystics, and at the same time phrasing it in terms of every-day objects. Whitman also hastens to say that he finds that all the things he finds himself to be are good; this is his quality of embraciveness, quite at odds with the Gnostic and Manichean dualist traditions where matter is seen as corrupt, and which have so influenced Christianity; similar reasoning behind Buddhism. He is dualist in the sense of making a distinction between body and soul, but not in the sense of preferring one over the other: they are not in fact separable.

Clear and sweet is my soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not my soul.

Lack one lacks both, and the unseen is proved by the seen,
Till that becomes unseen and receives proof in its turn.

Showing the best and dividing it from the worst age vexes age,
Knowing the perfect fitness and equanimity of things, while they discuss I am silent, and go bathe and admire myself.

Welcome is every organ and attribute of me, and of any man hearty and clean,
Not an inch nor a particle of an inch is vile, and none shall be less familiar than the rest.

I am satisfied — I see, dance, laugh, sing;
As the hugging and loving bed-fellow sleeps at my side through the night, and withdraws at the peep of the day with stealthy tread,
Leaving me baskets cover'd with white towels swelling the house with their plenty,
Shall I postpone my acceptation and realization and scream at my eyes,
That they turn from gazing after and down the road,
And forthwith cipher and show me to a cent,
Exactly the value of one and exactly the value of two, and which is ahead?
							(Song Of Myself, v.3)

In this extract we are given a clear statement of the equality of body and soul in typical Whitman style (and it is no good pretending that this style will be to everyone's liking; however our job is to look behind the style). Also typical is the veering from the plain statement to the obscure. We are easily with him up to 'I see, dance, laugh, sing;' but in the subsequent lines the scalpel is needed to dissect the meaning. In Jerome Loving's edition he provides a footnote that for 'bed-fellow' we should read God; he does not indicate what the image of baskets covered with white towels would signify in the historical context (new-born babies? fresh bread?), but clearly they are metaphorical gifts of life. Perhaps Whitman experienced the kind of dreamless sleep that Krishnamurti praised:

Sleep is as important as keeping awake, perhaps more so. If during the day time the mind is watchful, self-recollected, observing the inward and outward movement of life, then at night meditation comes as a benediction. The mind wakes up, and out of the depth of silence there is the enchantment of meditation, which no imagination or flight of fancy can ever bring about. It happens without the mind ever inviting it: it comes into being out of the tranquillity of consciousness — not within it but outside of it, not in the periphery of thought but beyond the reaches of thought. So there is no memory of it, for remembrance is always of the past, and meditation is not resurrection of the past. It happens out of the fullness of the heart and not out of intellectual brightness and capacity. It may happen night after night, but each time, if you are so blessed, it is new — not new in being different from old, but new without the background of the old, new in its diversity and changeless change.

Was Whitman blessed with the same dreamless sleep? Is this the meaning hidden in his baskets? It is quite possible that Whitman woke up with the same freshness that Krishnamurti described in terms of meditation, but that Whitman chose to describe poetically as baskets covered with white towels, that 'swell the house with plenty'. The idea behind the PCM world-view or critique is that, having established the infinite, eternal, and embracive in one author or text, we can make cross-references like this in the hope of illuminating obscurities. Dreamless sleep is an important feature in the lives of mystics, and is consistent with our understanding of their mental states; it is also commented on in another great codification of Indian wisdom: Patanjali's Yoga Sutras. What about the last four lines of the Whitman extract above? It is a major theme in his work, the road down which he gazes, for it represents, particularly in America at that time, the process of life itself; perhaps these stanzas restate the point made countless times in Leaves that he is realized (enlightened); no 'ciphering' or intellectualising is needed, but just to participate in life.
If we return to the expansive and infinite in Leaves of Grass, then it is clearly in the repeated use of  the 'cataloguing' (which brought so much criticism) that Whitman wishes to bring our attention to this part of his nature, and by example to this part of our own nature. The following is a typical passage where Whitman erases himself and sings instead of the existence that fills him, and with which he wishes to erase the reader and fill them too.

The pure contralto sings in the organ loft,
The carpenter dresses his plank, the tongue of his foreplane whistles its wild ascending lisp,
The married and unmarried children ride home to their Thanksgiving dinner,
The pilot seizes the king-pin, he heaves down with a strong arm,
The mate stands braced in the whale-boat, lance and harpoon are ready,
The duck-shooter walks by silent and cautious stretches,
The deacons are ordain'd with cross'd hands at the altar,
The spinning-girl retreats and advances to the hum of the big wheel,
The farmer stops by the bars as he walks on a First-day loafe and looks at the oats and rye,
The lunatic is carried at last to the asylum a confirm'd case,
(He will never sleep any more as he did in the cot in his mother's bed-room;)
The jour printer with gray head and gaunt jaws works at his case,
He turns his quid of tobacco while his eyes blurr the manuscript;
The malform'd limbs are tied to the surgeon's table,
What is removed drops horribly in a pail;
The quadroon girl is sold at the auction-stand, the drunkard nods by the bar-room stove,
The machinist rolls up his sleeves, the policeman travels his beat, the gate-keeper marks who pass,
The young fellow drives the express-wagon, (I love him, though I do not know him;)

Whitman intrudes briefly in the last stanza, and then goes on for several pages listing scenes of American life, finishing the verse with the following:

And these tend inward to me, and I tend outward to them,
And such as it is to be of these more or less I am,
And of these one and all I weave the song of myself.
						(Song Of Myself, v. 15)

A large part, but by no means the bulk, of Leaves consists of Whitman claiming identity in one way or another with the manifest and manifold life of America, though also correcting us if we think him this narrow in his focus, by also introducing other peoples, continents, and eras. In other passages he dwells on the perfection of things, small and large:
I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars, 
And the pismire is equally perfect, and a grain of sand, and the egg of the wren,
And the tree-toad is a chef-d'oeuvre for the highest,
And the running blackberry would adorn the parlors of heaven,
And the narrowest hinge in my hand puts to scorn all machinery,
And the cow crunching with depress'd head surpasses any statue,
And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels.

I find I incorporate gneiss, coal, long-threaded moss, fruits, grains, esculent roots, 
And am stucco'd with quadrupeds and birds all over,
And have distanced what is behind me for good reasons,
But call any thing back when I desire it.
						(Song of Myself, v. 31)

And am stucco'd with quadrupeds and birds all over! What an extraordinary image! But what follows is subtle and open to interpretation. For reasons that will become clearer when we examine the work of Douglas Harding, there exists an interpretation of the last two lines of the above passage that is very important: the manifold, that is the prolific and exuberant nature of existence, could easily overwhelm, and it is possible that Whitman is hinting here how this is dealt with. If one is stuccoed all over with birds and animals, one also needs to be unstuck of them, and so he has distanced what is behind him for good reasons, though able to bring anything back when required.
In PCM the concept of the infinite covers the type of expansiveness painted by Whitman, but also looks for its corollary, an emptiness or nothingness, or perhaps silence. However, we do not find much of this in Leaves, other perhaps than in the distancing just mentioned. The nearest we have is an acceptance and welcoming of death as the necessary substrate to life, but not an explicit engagement with any aspect of reality related to the Indian concept of nirvana. Whitman's bliss, as expressed in his songs, is of the manifest, while he reserves his silence for his private life.
That Whitman finds himself deathless is also beyond doubt: he touches on this again and again in Leaves. There are even many passages that suggest an understanding of reincarnation, though he does not use the word or spell it out as Krishna does. Perhaps he knows, perhaps he doesn't, but Whitman's philosophy doesn't need it, and certainly doesn't need one of its major sub-texts: karma. There is no sin or guilt with Whitman, and no need for a theory of punishment.
Let us look at some passages that are quite explicit about the eternal:

The soul,
Forever and forever — longer than soil is brown and solid — longer than water ebbs and flows.

I will make poems of materials, for I think they are to be the most spiritual poems,
And I will make the poems of my body and of mortality,
For I think I shall then supply myself with the poems of my soul and of immortality.
							(Starting from Paumanok, v. 6)

This passage hints at the immortality of the soul, and also repeats another great Whitman theme: the material is the basis for his songs of immortality; the ground and the fuel. In the next extract he talks of that which is not taken from one on the death of the body, and also, like Socrates, says that death is beautiful:

I will make the true poem of riches,
To earn for the body and the mind whatever adheres and goes forward and is not dropt by death,
I will effuse egotism and show it underlying all, and I will be the bard of personality,
And I will show of male and female that either is but the equal of the other,
And sexual organs and acts! do you concentrate in me, for I am determin'd to tell you with courageous clear voice to prove you illustrious,
And I will show that there is no imperfection in the present, and can be none in the future,
And I will show that whatever happens to anybody it may be turn'd to beautiful results,
And I will show that nothing can happen more beautiful than death,
							(Starting from Paumanok, v. 12)

In the above extract Whitman also expands on the sexual themes that shocked some of his 19th century audience; at the same time he extols egotism and personality; also he throws in, as he does at almost every opportunity, his immense satisfaction in the equality of male and female, the satisfaction of the existence of both one and the other. The next extract reminds one again of Socrates:

Has any one supposed it lucky to be born?
I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I know it.
							(Song Of Myself, v. 7)

In the next extract Whitman is talking about animals and how he recognises tokens of himself in them — I take it to hint at previous lives as animals (as mentioned before, I have my own dim recollections of lives as animals):

So they show their relations to me and I accept them,
They bring me tokens of myself, they evince them plainly in their possession.

I wonder where they get those tokens,
Did I pass that way huge times ago and negligently drop them?
							(Song Of Myself, v. 32)

In the next passage Whitman extends his deathlessness to even the least of his fellow-human beings (whom he calls manikins), putting to shame all the religious teachers who make a privilege of it:

The little plentiful manikins skipping around in collars and tail's coats,
I am aware who they are, (they are positively not worms or fleas,)
I acknowledge the duplicates of myself, the weakest and shallowest is deathless with me,
What I do and say the same waits for them,
Every thought that flounders in me the same flounders in them.
							(Song Of Myself, v. 42)

(Whitman knows his own greatness, but at the same time knows he is no more than the weakest and shallowest person.) In the next passage he says he will come again, though we know he will do it not out of duty or for any purpose (as Krishna does) but for the joy of it:

I do not despise you priests, all time, the world over,
My faith is the greatest of faiths and the least of faiths,
Enclosing worship ancient and modern and all between ancient and modern,
Believing I shall come again upon the earth after five thousand years,
							(Song Of Myself, v. 43)

In the longer passage that follows Whitman shrugs off death again as he does countless times in Leaves, hints again at reincarnation, and also invites us to the event of birth through 'the sills of the exquisite flexible doors' (note that an accoucheur is a male midwife):

And as to you Death, and you bitter hug of mortality, it is idle to try and alarm me.

To his work without flinching the accoucheur comes,
I see the elder-hand pressing receiving supporting,
I recline by the sills of the exquisite flexible doors,
And mark the outlet, and mark the relief and escape.

And as to you Corpse I think you are good manure, but that does not offend me,
I smell the white roses sweet-scented and growing,
I reach to the leafy lips, I reach to the polish'd breasts of melons.

And as to you Life I reckon you are the leavings of many deaths,
(No doubt I have died myself ten thousand times before.)

In the following complete poem Whitman is talking about his periodic incarnation, and one has to contrast the joyous prospect for him of birth with the Buddhist preoccupation with the cessation of the wheel of birth and death (note also that Whitman simply cannot leave women out of even the shortest celebration):

TO THE GARDEN OF THE WORLD
To the garden of the world anew descending,
Potent mates, daughters, sons, preluding,
The love, the life of their bodies, meaning and being,
Curious here behold my resurrection after slumber,
The revolving cycles in their wide sweep having brought me again, 
Amorous, mature, all beautiful to me, all wondrous,
My limbs and the quivering fire that ever plays through them, for reasons, most wondrous,
Existing I peer and penetrate still,
Content with the present, content with the past,
By my side or back of me Eve following,
Or in front, and I following her just the same.

One more passage on Whitman and the eternal:

I know I am deathless,
I know this orbit of mine cannot be swept by a carpenter's compass,
I know I shall not pass like a child's carlacue cut with a burnt stick at night.

I know I am august,
I do not trouble my spirit to vindicate itself or be understood,
I see that the elementary laws never apologize,
(I reckon I behave no prouder than the level I plant my house by, after all.)

I exist as I am, that is enough,
If no other in the world be aware I sit content,
And if each and all be aware I sit content.

One world is aware and by far the largest to me, and that is myself,
And whether I come to my own to-day or in ten thousand or ten million years,
I can cheerfully take it now, or with equal cheerfulness I can wait.

My foothold is tenon'd and mortis'd in granite,
I laugh at what you call dissolution,
And I know the amplitude of time.
						(Song Of Myself, v. 20)

As usual, when we examine a Whitman passage for one thing, we find many others, such are the density and interrelatedness of ideas. We find references to immortality in two places in this passage: 'I know I am deathless,' and 'I laugh at what you call dissolution'. He also throws in a reference to the infinite in denying that his orbit can be defined by any circle, and spells out for us that he makes no apologies for his nature, radically different as it is to what would be conventionally supposed (we shall see that Douglas Harding has an interesting perspective on our natures being different to what is supposed). He also seems to be commenting on the paradox of being at the centre of the universe when others must also clearly be so, by raising the issue of whether others are aware or not (though the passage could just be interpreted as asking whether others are aware of him). We shall look into this issue in more depth later, but it is worth pointing out that in one way or another the question has troubled many thinkers, and is sometimes referred to in philosophy as the 'other minds' problem. Typically for Whitman, he observes the problem, but does not make it a problem: the world is constructed this way, and he is content with it. It is worth noting, for future reference however, the line 'One world is aware and by far the largest to me, and that is myself,' as the concept of existence as aware is important to PCM.
We have seen that Leaves contains an expression of the infinite confined mainly to the expansive, with little or none of its complementary half: nothingness. In Whitman's expressions of the eternal, we find however nearly all the references common amongst the great mystics: the sense of immortality, the loss of the fear of death, the celebration of the present moment, and even evidence of reincarnation. We don't find any reference to silence of the mind, though in his life Whitman was often alone and silent, or even silent in company. There is easily enough evidence however to conclude that Whitman should be considered a mystic of the first rank. From this position we can examine his particular embraciveness, remembering that in this term resides much of what differentiates mystics from each other.
Whitman's embraciveness is clearly monumental; possibly the most celebratory and inclusive statement of oneness with the world to be found in any literature from any continent or era. What precisely characterises it though? We can see that it differs from the embracivity of the Gita in an explicit acceptance of the evils of the world. Before we can go further into this question however, we should examine the negative sides of Whitman. He suffered in his life, physically and emotionally, but the presence of suffering did not diminish existence for him, as it did for the Buddha: Whitman's compassion is no less than the Buddha's either:

Agonies are one of my changes of garments,
I do not ask the wounded person how he feels, I myself become the wounded person,
My hurt turns livid upon me as I lean on a cane and observe.
						(Song of Myself, v. 33)

Whitman's compassion is no less (he uses the word 'compassionater' many times in Leaves) but the image of him leaning on his cane and observing agony may seem rather remote. The detachment this conjures up reminds us of his flat narration of the massacre of four hundred and twelve soldiers in Texas — but, to really grasp Whitman, we also have to have his courage; the courage which faces suffering: the disease, old age and death which so shocked the young Gautama into finding an end to them. Whitman may strike the tender mind as callous, but I am offering the view that he is nothing of the sort: he is mature in comparison to the Buddha, a maturity we find in many seasoned livers of life.
 Scattered through Leaves we find references to bad things as well as good things, but accommodated as part of the order of things in his broad sweep across life. Clearly excrement is a part of nourishment, injury and illness part of health, natural disaster part of nature, and death part of life. What of man's wickedness however? How does Whitman avoid the perception, common, it seems, to many 'intelligent' people, that others are generally deficient? How does he manage to love people on such a vast scale, and not in fantasy, but in reality, as all accounts of his life bear out? As we have seen he had little tolerance for fools, but seems to find very few of them. Is this simply a form of optimism?
The answer to this must be no. Whitman sees far too clearly to be superficially optimistic, and the very thrust of his work goes against any kind of utopia; his labours are to show us the perfect now (though he also loves the future). But this is not the perfection of the simple-minded, and he is well aware of the anguish and horror that the human condition can encompass. The following verses give us a glimpse of his keen eye for the worst, a striking contrast to the bulk of Leaves, that derives from a keen eye for the best:

Whoever you are, come forth! or man or woman come forth!
You must not stay sleeping and dallying there in the house though you built it, or though it has been built for you.
Out of the dark confinement! out from behind the screen!
It is useless to protest, I know all and expose it.

We could take the reference to a house literally, but, with a background in mysticism, we are alert to the metaphor of the house: in Buddhism it is the body, and usually on fire — the awakened ones are urging you to leave it. Here it is more likely to refer to the cocooned safety of artifice and manners, whether those protections are slavishly inherited from society, or are more unique to the individual, as will be clear as the passage continues:

Behold through you as bad as the rest,
Through the laughter, dancing, dining, supping, of people,
Inside of dresses and ornaments, inside of those wash'd and trimm'd faces,
Behold a secret silent loathing and despair.

No husband, no wife, no friend, trusted to hear the confession,
Another self, a duplicate of every one, skulking and hiding it goes,
Formless and wordless through the streets of the cities, polite and bland in the parlors,
In the cars of railroads, in steamboats, in the public assembly, 
Home to the houses of men and women, at the table, in the bedroom, everywhere,
Smartly attired, countenance smiling, form upright, death under the breast-bones, hell under the skull-bones,
Under the broadcloth and gloves, under the ribbons and artificial flowers,
Keeping fair with the customs, speaking not a syllable of itself,
Speaking of any thing else but never of itself.
					(Crossing Brooklyn Ferry, v. 13)

Death under the breast-bones, hell under the skull-bones! Whitman has known it and seen it, perhaps in one phrase summed up the coming alienation of the 20th century intellectual, but, as suddenly as he takes the gloves of to dissect with razor-sharp instruments the cancer in men's souls (the secret silent loathing and despair), he leaves the theme again and returns to sunnier vistas. Whitman takes another pot-shot at the poverty of man's spirit, again out of the blue, in this passage:

I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and self-contain'd,
I stand and look at them long and long.

They do not sweat and whine about their condition,
They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins,
They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God,
Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania of owning things,
Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago,
Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth.
							(Song Of Myself, v. 32)
 
There is no doubt that, when in the mood, Whitman could be devastating in his criticism of his contemporaries, but it is important to realize that such passages are very rare in Leaves, and provide only a trace of salt in the dish. They are important however, because they dispel the notion that his positive embraciveness arises from a simple-mindedness, far from it. Whitman chooses to emphasise the positive and wholesome.
If the reader wishes to find a complete poem written as an inversion of Whitman's usual proportion of wholesome to critical, then turn to Respondez!, found in earlier versions of Leaves, but later edited out by Whitman. It is almost wholly negative, and, out of respect to Whitman's intentions, it is not reproduced here. We must not ignore the negative in Whitman's life though; his later biographers often focus on his declining years as evidence of his fallibility, and it may well be that from the point of his first stroke that Whitman's spirits were lowered, and indeed some of the photographs taken as he became progressively less mobile indicate a melancholy. The temptation to use this to refute the message of Leaves is misguided, I think, and ignores the inevitable vulnerability of a mystic so uniquely involved in the world. We can imagine Carpenter's Indian sage weathering ill-health serenely (as Ramakrishna and Maharshi did with their terminal cancers), but, as Carpenter's insight shows, Whitman was possibly the greater for his lack of aloofness.
If we accept the orientation of Whitman to infinite and eternal (leaving for the moment his unique embraciveness), we can examine now his pedagogy. That Whitman in an undramatic way saw himself as a teacher has been hinted at by the comment he let slip to Carpenter about being a 'furtive old hen', and the passage quoted by Burroughs where Whitman has to be wrestled with for the 'solid prizes of the universe'. Whitman is in best humour in this passage, and represents an unusual standpoint here: the aspirant has to fight him for realisation, perhaps reminiscent of Gurdjieff or some Zen Masters; all of which is at odds with his frequent lament (and the lament of all the mystics) that they cannot find ears to hear them. This poem, which could be read only in sexual terms, touches on a common theme in Leaves: the continual search for a receptive spirit:

AMONG THE MULTITUDE

Among the men and women the multitude,
I perceive one picking me out by secret and divine signs,
Acknowledging none else, not parent, wife, husband, brother, child, any nearer than I am,
Some are baffled, but that one is not — that one knows me.

Ah lover and perfect equal,
I meant that you should discover me so by faint indirections, 
And when I meet you mean to discover you by the like in you.

We may note that Jesus likewise dismissed the ties of family relationship in comparison to that which draws the Master and his disciple near; he also 'fished' continuously for those that would not be baffled by him. There are many other references in Leaves that support a view of Whitman as teacher, and possible comparisons to Christ. In this complete poem, To Him That Was Crucified we are left in no doubt.

My spirit to yours dear brother,
Do not mind because many sounding your name do not understand you,
I do not sound your name, but I understand you,
I specify you with joy O my comrade to salute you, and to salute those who are with you, before and since, and those to come also,
That we labor together transmitting the same charge and succession,
We few equals indifferent of lands, indifferent of times,
We, enclosers of all continents, all castes, allowers of all theologies,
Compassionaters, perceivers, rapport of men,
We walk silent among disputes and assertions, but reject not the disputers nor any thing that is asserted,
We hear the bawling and din, we are reach'd at by divisions, jealousies, recriminations on every side,
They close peremptorily upon us to surround us, my comrade,
Yet we walk unheld, free, the whole earth over, journeying up and down till we make our ineffaceable mark upon time and the diverse eras,
Till we saturate time and eras, that the men and women of races, ages to come, may prove brethren and lovers as we are.

The only reference to Jesus is in the title of the poem. From the perspective of Pure Consciousness Mysticism there is no difficulty with a comparison between Jesus and Whitman, and many made it in Whitman's own life-time, but, because we more often encounter such a claim from the mentally ill, we need to consider what it means in terms of Whitman's own world-view. His three claims in the poem are: that he understands Jesus; that he labours to transmit the same charge (teaching) as Jesus; and that he is amongst the few equals of Jesus. And what is his teaching? That all 'may prove brethren and lovers as we are.' Is any of this inconsistent with the rest of Leaves of Grass? Does this one poem finally invalidate all the rest and mark Whitman as insane? If we look again at his life there is no evidence whatsoever that Whitman was insane, so we have to reconcile the world-view of a man whose simplicity, compassion, and generosity was outstanding with the apparent enormity of the claim to be like Jesus. But there is nothing in Pure Consciousness Mysticism to either contradict his claim, or to make anything special out of it. I have personally met at least six individuals like Whitman in this respect, and with one of them finding myself quite involuntarily saying 'I have spent a week with Christ' (odd, really, how one can say this without having met Christ, but people are often moved to the same remark in similar circumstances). Just because something is rare does not make it impossible, and it is the job of PCM as a critique to make comparisons by recognising the common ground amongst the 'few equals indifferent of lands, indifferent of times'.
A further Christ-reference is made in the following passage, where he almost makes the mistake of forgetting his Christ-likeness:

Enough ! enough ! enough !
Somehow I have been stunn'd. Stand Back !
Give me a little time beyond my cuff'd head, slumbers, dreams, gaping,
I discover myself on the verge of a usual mistake.

That I could forget the mockers and insults !
That I could forget the trickling tears and blows of the bludgeons and hammers !
That I could look with a separate look on my own crucifixion and bloody crowning.

I remember now,
I resume the overstaid fraction,
The grave of rock multiplies what has been confided to it, or to any graves,
Corpses rise, gashes heal, fastenings roll from me.

I troop forth replenish'd with supreme power, one of an average unending procession,
Inland and sea-coast we go, and pass all boundary lines,
Our swift ordinances on their way over the whole earth,
The blossoms we wear in our hats the growth of thousands of years.

Eleves, I salute you ! Come forward !
Continue your annotations, continue your questionings.
							(Song Of Myself, v. 38)

Even if the bulk of this verse is obscure, he addresses us in the last two lines as students (and we shall continue our annotations and questionings! — in fact this volume only scratches the surface of Leaves and I can only hope that others continue to look deeper into it). Let us look at other hints that Whitman drops in Leaves about his mission as a teacher:

I teach straying from me, yet who can stray from me?
I follow you whoever you are from the present hour,
My words itch at your ears till you understand them.
					(Song Of Myself, v. 38)

If we think back to the sentiment expressed in these lines: 

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.

We see that Whitman puts himself forward as a teacher of the solid prizes of the universe, but more than this, he affords them to the pupil; but the pupil must be worthy. This is the message of the following complete poem, Whoever You Are Holding Me Now In Hand:

Whoever you are holding me now in hand,
Without one thing all will be useless,
I give you fair warning before you attempt me further, 
I am not what you supposed, but far different.

Who is he that would become my follower?
Who would sign himself a candidate for my affections?

The way is suspicious, the result uncertain, perhaps destructive,
You would have to give up all else, I alone would expect to be your sole and exclusive standard,
Your novitiate would even then be long and exhausting,
The whole past theory of your life and all conformity to the lives around you would have to be abandon'd,
Therefore release me now before troubling yourself any further, let go your hand from my shoulders,
Put me down and depart on your way.

Or else by stealth in some wood for trial,
Or back of a rock in the open air,
(For in any roof'd room of a house I emerge not, nor in company,
And in libraries I lie as one dumb, a gawk, or unborn, or dead,)
But just possibly with you on a high hill, first watching lest any person for miles around approach unawares,
Or possibly with you sailing at sea, or on the beach of the sea or some quiet island, Here to put your lips upon mine I permit you,
With the comrade's long-dwelling kiss or the new husband's kiss,
For I am the new husband and I am the comrade.

Or if you will, thrusting me beneath your clothing,
Where I may feel the throbs of your heart or rest upon your hip,
Carry me when you go forth over land or sea;
For thus merely touching you is enough, is best,
And thus touching you would I silently sleep and be carried eternally.

But these leaves conning you con at peril,
For these leaves and me you will not understand,
They will elude you at first and still more afterward, 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 not for what I have put into it that I have written this book,
Nor is it by reading it you will acquire it,
Nor do those know me best who admire me and vauntingly praise me,
Nor will the candidates for my love (unless at most a very few) prove victorious,
Nor will my poems do good only, they will do just as much evil, perhaps more,
For all is useless without that which you may guess at many times and not hit, that which I hinted at;
Therefore release me and depart on your way.

The erotic imagery in this poem could distract one from its meaning, but, as mentioned before, in mysticism throughout the world we find erotic imagery in the description of the unitive state or approaches to the unitive state. The sentiment here is one we find from many teachers in franker moments: few will understand me. Jesus knew it when he talked of the seed scattered far and wide, and only a few taking root; Gurdjieff knew it when he made insurmountable obstacles for the merely curious who flocked to him, and Krishnamurti's life-long irritability sprang from the same source: the earnest but dumb incomprehension of his questioners. Whitman also points out that it is a dangerous path — all one's past theories of one's own life and those around one have to be abandoned (as Krishnamurti pointed out to Bohm), because of the shock of one's real identity. Ramakrishna was as irrepressible and eager to convey his wisdom to those 'touched' individuals that he could find as Whitman must have been, though their style and culture could not be more different. While Whitman was walking around Brooklyn where he 'fished' for one 'who would not be baffled by me', Ramakrishna sat in his temple delighting in any new aspirant of purity, urging them to contemplate the Divine Mother, and forget 'women and gold'.  Although the pedagogy is poles apart, we can discern in Ramakrishna the same eagerness and curiosity for each potential aspirant that Whitman shows; Krishnamurti's interest was much cooler in contrast.

2.4 Other Perspectives

Apart from Bucke, Burroughs, Carpenter, and a number of other contemporaries who saw the spiritual and prophetic nature of Leaves, most Western scholars to this date have considered only the literary and aesthetic aspects of it. The varying fortunes of Leaves have been determined by such scholars and critics, with modern biographers either ignoring the mystic dimension of Whitman and his work, or downright hostile to it, in the typical modern fashion of many critics in the arts. In a recent volume called The Neglected Walt Whitman: Vital Texts, the author Sam Abrams claims to supply texts either left out in later editions of Leaves, or unpublished work altogether. He says of the neglected texts:

Some of these are absolutely crucial (and are so recognised by the overwhelming consensus of contemporary critics) for comprehending the radicality, the complexity and the sheer artistry of Whitman's poetic achievement. Other are equally crucial for illuminating the great sexual mystery of Whitman's biography, and, even more importantly for throwing light on the tangled relationship between the "real" Walt Whitman (1819-1892) and the immortal persona he created in Leaves of Grass —"Walt Whitman, a kosmos."				(page 2)

This passage shows clearly the main concerns of contemporary criticism for Whitman: his artistry, his sexuality, and to demonstrate that Leaves represents Whitman's persona and not his reality. The evidence from Bucke, Burroughs, Carpenter, and many others that his persona in Leaves and his reality were one and the same thing is incomprehensible to modern literary criticism, and this shortcoming is one of the reasons for examining Whitman so closely from the perspective of Pure Consciousness Mysticism. This is not to deny however that Whitman's artistry is superb and deserves praise and study in itself, and also that it adds immeasurably to his message. Many of the greatest mystics, both living and dead, have little literary gift, but where it does coincide with knowledge we are left with something priceless.
Dorothy Mercer was unusual amongst more recent Western scholars in taking an interest in the comparisons between Whitman and Oriental thought, submitting in 1933 a PhD thesis "Leaves of Grass and the Bhagavad Gita". This remains unpublished, but there exists a series of articles by her in the journal Vedanta and the West, published by the Vedanta Society of Los Angeles in the middle to late forties. In one of them she observed that a number of passages in Leaves suggested that Whitman believed in reincarnation, and commented that though this bears resemblance to Vedic thought, he does not share some of its attitude to suffering. Mercer's work is illuminative, though, as V.K.Chari (introduced below) has commented, she probably over-emphasises the evolutionary aspect of Leaves, perhaps influenced in this by Bucke.
Romain Rolland's work, published in the late 1920's, was also sympathetic to Whitman. Rolland charted Vivekananda's role in the establishment of Vedanta in the West, in the USA in particular, and recognised the American Transcendentalists (Emerson and Thoreau) as important figures in the introduction of Hindu thought into the US. For Whitman however he reserves an unconditional salute as the equal of anything Hindu, at the same time lamenting that Vivekananda did not praise him enough (beyond calling him the 'American Sannyasin'). Rolland calls Whitman the 'dead giant', 'whose shade was a thousand times warmer than such pale reflections of the Sun of Being seen through their cold methodist window panes. He stood before Vivekananda and held out his great hand to him. … How was it that he did not take it?' This was meant metaphorically, as Whitman had died in the year previous to Vivekananda's arrival in the States. In my own experience great teachers are anyway disinclined to recognise each other or meet each other (with notable exceptions of course); Rajneesh, while recognising Krishnamurti, explained to those of his followers who urged a meeting between them that it would accomplish nothing — they would either sit in silence in mutual recognition of the infinite and eternal in each other, or they would disagree on every single point of pedagogy. (I would add that as such great teachers are so rare it is a waste to put them in the same room, even for a day.)
Rolland said of Whitman's religious thought that it 'has come least into the limelight — and at the same time is the kernel [of his poetry].' He regretted also that beyond his immediate disciples Whitman was not recognised in the States:

But this is true of all real Precursors. And it does not make them any the less the true representatives of their people that their people ignore them: in them is liberated out of due time the profound energies hidden and compressed within the human masses: they announce them; sooner or later they come to light. The genius of Whitman was the index of the hidden soul sleeping — (she is not yet wide awake) — in the depth of his people of the United States.

Let us look now at some scholars with an Indian background and see how they have assessed Leaves of Grass. In his preface to Maha Yogi: Walt Whitman - New Light on Yoga, published in 1978, O.K.Nambiar comments on Hindu reactions to Whitman:

It is a curious fact that the Hindu mind has shown an instant capacity for responsive incandescence when brought into contact with Whitman's works. I remember an occasion when I read out passages from Leaves Of Grass and translated them for the benefit of a Brahmin pundit. The pundit's eyes lighted up with a flash of recognition, and he exclaimed from time to time — 'He is a realised soul,' 'that is the cream of the Vedanta,' 'those are the signs of Bhava Samadhi' — a joyous recognition of the familiar Upanishadic landmarks all along the route. I know also a few Hindu professors of American Literature who have cheap jibes ready when they talk of Whitman — "homosexual," "egotist," "cataloguer," etc., all of which reveal how little they have tried to know him.

(It is also unlikely that Gandhi would have responded with incandescence to Leaves, despite his extensive reading of the Hindu scriptures.) As another example of the Indian response to Whitman, it is interesting to note that Asit Chandmal ends his introduction to his photo-essay on Krishnamurti with passages from 'Song of Myself' As a contemporary academic Nambiar is unusually receptive to Whitman (or perhaps only so to Western thinking), and makes many interesting connections and comparisons with other mystics of various tradition, though mainly Indian. He is able to describe various contemporaries of Whitman, such as Bucke and Horace Traubel, as Whitman's disciples, and him their guru, without any of the embarrassment or distaste that a Western academic would show. Here is a passage concerning Traubel:

An interesting fact about Horace Traubel may be mentioned here. Whitman was Traubel's Guru. Traubel had served him devotedly during the last fifteen years of Whitman's life during his illness. Traubel had his first samadhi experience at the age of thirty one, followed by two successive experiences at two year intervals. The last one, a particularly overwhelming experience, happened when he was crossing the ferry, leaning over the railing of the boat. He then "lost this world for another" and saw revealed for a few minutes "things hitherto withheld from him". "The physical body went through the experience of a disappearance in spiritual light."…"I was one with God, Love, the Universe, at face to face with myself." He was sensible of particular mental and moral disturbances and readjustments, … "an indissoluble unity of the several energies of my being in one force". He stood so profoundly lost in this blissful state that a deckhand who knew him had to tap him on the shoulder to bring him back to normal consciousness. There was such a heavenly look in his face that the deckhand exclaimed: "You look wonderfully well and happy tonight, Mr. Traubel." He continued in a state of ecstacy for full twentyfour hour before he met Walt Whitman. The first words that Walt addressed to him when he sallied into his room reassured him: "Horace," he said, "you have the look of great happiness in your face tonight. Have you had a run of good luck?" Traubel explained in a few words that he had indeed a run of good luck though not perhaps the good luck he had in mind for him at the moment. Walt put his hand on Traubel's shoulder and looked deep into his eyes and said one of the strangest things he ever said, "I knew it would come to you." Traubel said, "I have been wondering all day if I am not crazy." Walt laughed gravely. "No, sane. Now at last you are sane." The Guru knew instinctively that the disciple had made the grade. 

Where Nambiar's analysis parts company with PCM however, is in the ingrained Hindu attitude to the material world as 'illusion' or in some way lesser than the spiritual. This is shown clearly in the following passage:

Whitman speaks to us from two levels. He has got himself misunderstood, sometimes, because he commutes between the two levels without warning us. He shifts his standpoint.
There are two Whitmans. One is the 'son of Manhattan'. The other is 'a Kosmos'. The former, somewhat unreasonably calls himself 'one of the roughs', just for the sake of being all inclusive. The latter during his cosmic moments believes himself, to be an "incredible God". The two have to be carefully separated lest their voices should mix.
The Manhattan voice speaks of the earthly show: it talks about politics, wars, presidents, the Broadway pageant and the human scene. The 'incredible God' swiftly leaps over them and speaks of the soul, the cosmic plan, divine purpose and of the 'light untellable'. Since the son of Manhattan is intermittently aware that he is a Kosmos, there are two voices heard in Leaves, and we are apt to treat them alike. However, sensitive readers can note a difference. When he speaks from the 'Manhattan level' he appears to be speaking out to us in a 'yawp heard over the roofs of the earth.'
The reader is obliged to shift his view-point back and forth between the immanent and the transcendent levels of consciousness to follow the transition of thought. This movement on the part of the reader is necessary.

Despite the embraciveness of the Gita (remember that Krishna urges us to love also the man who eats a dog), and the tradition of non-dualism, and the Tantric traditions, there is a very Hindu fastidiousness shown here that wants to separate the Manhattan voice from the cosmic voice; that wishes to make a distinction between the immanent and the transcendent, and thinks Whitman 'unreasonable' for calling himself one of the roughs. It is true that Whitman, in using language, does distinguish between his soul and the rest, but he always does so in the context of explaining their equality and inter-manifestatory nature (i.e. that one begets the other). Perhaps Whitman sensed this aspect of Hinduism when he told Carpenter that he did not expect more from that source. We have other reasons for finding Nambiar's directive to separate the two voices or levels unsatisfactory, detailed further in the section below on Douglas Harding.
Nambiar also makes explicit references to the occult in Whitman, mainly in terms of the theory of Kundalini, the snake-energy supposedly resident in the spine. PCM does not reject any of this, remember, but finds it mainly irrelevant; Whitman says explicitly 'The supernatural of no account'. However Nambiar's book is a very interesting and informative study of Whitman with sections on Ramakrishna, R.M.Bucke, and Rumi, amongst others.
V.K.Chari, another Indian scholar, first wrote Whitman in the Light of Vedantic Mysticism as his PhD thesis, and subsequently published it in 1964. The 1976 edition has an introduction by Gay Wilson Allen who praised Chari's work as a thorough study of Whitman in the context of Indian thought. Allen recounts how Thoreau had asked Whitman if "he had read any of the great works of India", to which Whitman is supposed to have replied "No, tell me about them". Whitman claims however to have read "the ancient Hindu poems" before writing Leaves of Grass, and Nambiar's Maha Yogi: Walt Whitman, shows in the frontispiece a photograph of a page from Whitman's version of the Gita with a handwritten commentary.
Chari gives a good introduction to the literary controversies surrounding Leaves, and also compares it to Thus Spoke Zarathustra which we shall look at in the next chapter. Chari prefers the Upanishads to the Gita for comparisons with Leaves of Grass, and also gives a detailed exposition with reference to the philosophies of Fichte, Schelling and Hegel. This is generally a useful book about Whitman, but tends to use Western philosophy as the link between Whitman and Vedantic mysticism, partly on the grounds the Whitman was enthusiastic about Hegel. PCM as a critique avoids the speculative nature of the philosopher's discourse, at least as a starting point, so from this point of view Chari's work is not as relevant as Nambiar's.
In Whitman and Bharati: A Comparative Study V.Sachitanandan shows how the Tamil poet Bharati was influenced by Whitman in the introduction of free verse into his tradition. Sachitanandan also investigates the affinity of the two poets in terms of Vedantic mysticism, in particular the Advaita (non-dual) school of Vedanta, but on the whole the study is more oriented towards a literary analysis than a mystical one.

2.5 Nature Mysticism

Postponing for a good while yet a closer look at Whitman's unique embraciveness, we turn now to the general consideration of what nature mysticism might entail. Any label on mysticism is misleading because PCM postulates that mystic union must at root be the same state for each mystic, but as a label on a particular form of embraciveness it might be useful. An Englishman, Richard Jefferies, is often referred to as a 'Nature Mystic', sometimes together with Whitman; Krishnamurti's notebooks, written through most of his life include frequent descriptions of nature, and opened my eyes in my twenties to nature in a way that no writer I had encountered up to then had been able to do — since then I have sought connections with mysticism and nature.
What in Whitman could be called a nature mystic? If you lose your identity to the universe, or somehow expand to be the universe, then you embrace nature, and I would suggest that nature can be of a special significance to the mystic, though obviously this depends on temperament. It will not usually be part of the mystic's life who follows via negativa, or generally of those with a renunciative emphasis, though we must be wary of these distinctions. In Leaves, Whitman's celebration is so comprehensive, and so inclusive of man's arts and industries, that nature, in the modern sense of being in opposition to industrial and urban life, does not stand out. It is a comment of his to Bucke that gives us an interesting insight into his attitude to writing on nature (Bucke had suggested writing about a magnificent waterfall):

"All such things need to be at least the third or fourth remove; in itself it would be too much for nine out of ten readers. Very few care for natural objects themselves, rocks, rain, hail, wild animals, tangled forests, weeds, mud, common Nature. They want her in a shape fit for reading about in a rocking-chair, or as ornaments in china, marble or bronze. The real things are, far more than they would own, disgusting, revolting to them." Whitman adds: "This may be a reason of the dislike of Leaves of Grass by the majority."

In Leaves the descriptions of nature are often in the form of lists, but effective in spite of that. There is a prose description in Specimen Days that perhaps comes closest to telling us how Whitman really sees nature:

1 September: I should not take either the biggest or the most picturesque tree to illustrate it. Here is one of my favorite now before me, a fine yellow poplar, quite straight, perhaps ninety feet high, and four feet thick at the butt. How strong, vital, enduring! how dumbly eloquent! What suggestions of imperturbability and being, as against the human trait of mere seeming. Then the qualities, almost emotional, palpably artistic, heroic, of a tree; so innocent and harmless, yet so savage. It is, yet says nothing. How it rebukes by its tough and equable serenity in all weathers, this gusty-tempered little whiffet, man, that runs indoors at a mite of rain or snow. Science (or rather half-way science) scoffs at reminiscence of dryad and hamadryad, and of trees speaking. But, if they don't, they do as well as most speaking, writing, poetry, sermons — or rather they do a great deal better. I should say indeed that those old dryad-reminiscences are quite as true as any, and profounder than most reminiscences we get. ('Cut this out,' as the quack mediciners say, and keep by you.) Go and sit in a grove or woods, with one or more of these voiceless companions and read the foregoing, and think.
One lesson from affiliating a tree — perhaps the greatest moral lesson anyhow from earth, rocks, animals, is that same lesson of inherencey, of what is, without the least regard to what the looker on (the critic) supposes or says, or whether he likes or dislikes. What worse — what more general malady pervades each and all of us, our literature, education, attitude towards each other, (even towards ourselves,) than morbid trouble about seems, (generally temporarily seems too,) and no trouble at all, or hardly any, about the sane slow-growing, perennial, real parts of character, books, friendship, marriage — humanity's invisible foundations and hold-together? (As the all-basis, the nerve, the great sympathetic, the plenum within humanity, giving stamp to everything, is necessarily invisible.) 

 It was an endless pleasure for Whitman to simply be in nature, spending time in the countryside, enjoying the ordinary as much as any spectacular scenes like canyons or great waterfalls or brilliant sunsets. Bucke saw that natural things gave Whitman a pleasure that ordinary people never experience, and credited him with above-average hearing and sense of smell (though this is probably unlikely: Whitman may have just been more alert to his sensations). Whitman's opinion of Thoreau was interesting: he suspected that the romantic view of nature expressed in Thoreau's Walden and in his life was not so much from 'a love of woods, streams, and hills, ... as from a morbid dislike of humanity. I remember Thoreau saying once, when walking with him in my favorite Brooklyn — "What is there in the people? What do you (a man who sees as well as anybody) see in all this cheating political corruption?"' This is echoed in a passage from Thoreau himself:

"I walk towards one of our ponds, but what signifies the beauty of Nature when men are base? We walk to lakes to see our serenity reflected in them; when we are not serene, we go not to them."

Whitman then is perhaps unusual in his love of nature as an encompassing love, not a turning away from the human and man-made. 'The Lesson of a Tree' is telling us how to let nature instruct us in our human sphere, and in the foundations of our being; it is teaching us a sobriety, a willingness to allow the important things to mature at their own mysterious pace, and not to apply the modern haste to our foundations. Beyond this lesson, and it is fundamental to Whitman's teachings I think, there is also the sheer exuberant delight in nature, and also an almost painful wonder at it:

As I have walk'd in Alabama my morning walk,
I have seen where the she-bird the mocking-bird sat on her nest in the briers hatching her brood.

I have seen the he-bird also,
I have paus'd to hear him at hand inflating his throat and joyfully singing.

And while I paus'd it came to me that what he really sang for was not there only,
Not for his mate nor himself only, nor all sent back by the echoes,
But subtle, clandestine, away beyond,
A charge transmitted and gift occult for those being born.
					('Starting from Paumanok' v. 11)

I am usually wary of the term 'occult', as mentioned before, but in this instance I like it, and sympathise with it. I also find in the song of birds, when I am in a receptive mood, something that I cannot find a word for, it is so delightful and evoking, but would accept the word 'occult' to describe it, or any part of nature when I am receptive. Have you ever been in the middle of a field of maize (corn) in summer? The march of rows of these eight-foot plants in all directions with their short aerial roots at the base of their thickened stems is extraordinary, perhaps 'occult', as are many plants and animals if you look at them as if for the first time, without the deadening of familiarity. 
Richard Jefferies takes the 'alien' nature of Nature a step further, as we shall see. He was a contemporary of Whitman, though born in 1848 when Whitman was already thirty-one; he died young, five years before Whitman, in 1887. He was born in England, the son of a farmer struggling against the industrial age (Bucke too was born in England to a farming family, in 1837), and was a journalist and writer by profession, much as Whitman. That he is considered as a mystic is due to his book The Story of My Heart, which was published in 1883 (about the same time as Nietzsche's Thus Spoke Zarathustra and Bucke's biography of Whitman). The Story of My Heart is as unique and different from the rest of the world's mystical literature as the Tao Teh Ching, or Leaves of Grass. At times there is an extraordinary parallel with Whitman, and at other times he seems to say the opposite. Jefferies' love of nature runs along the same stream as Whitman's thoughts in 'The Lesson of a Tree', only he describes his raptures at greater length, and in terms of the empowering of his 'soul life'. Again and again he describes how he seeks solitary moments away from his family and work, and climbs a local hill, or seeks the sea, and strides across the human-remote countryside or beach in order to wrest the nourishment for his soul-life from nature; or he lies under a tree or by a brook and stares up at the sky and lets it fill him. His book is a careful prose, and in great contrast to Whitman's free verse, but he sings of nature, and, oddly for a Victorian Englishman, the body too:

There came to me a delicate, but at the same time a deep, strong and sensuous enjoyment of the beautiful green earth, the beautiful sky and sun; I felt them, they gave me inexpressible delight, as if they embraced and poured out their love upon me. It was I who loved them, for my heart was broader than the earth; it is broader now than even then, more thirsty and desirous. After the sensuous enjoyment always come the thought, the desire: That I might be like this; that I might have the inner meaning of the sun, the light, the earth, the trees and grass, translated into some growth of excellence in myself, both of the body and of mind; greater perfection of physique, greater perfection of mind and soul; that I might be higher in myself.

For Jefferies his mysticism is one of longing, a desire that he calls his 'single thought' or prayer, and the beauty of nature raises it to the highest degree. Unlike those that run away from the human to nature, Jefferies finds the human body to be the sum of all beauty in nature:

Not only in grass fields with green leaf and running brook did this constant desire find renewal. More deeply still with living human beauty; the perfection of form, the simple fact of forms, ravished and always will ravish me away. In this lies the outcome and end of all the loveliness of sunshine and green leaf, of flowers, pure water and sweet air. This is embodiment and highest expression; the scattered, uncertain, and designless loveliness of tree and sunshine brought to shape. Through this beauty I prayed deepest and longest, and down to this hour. The shape — the divine idea of that shape — the swelling muscle or the dreamy limb, strong sinew or curve of bust, Aphrodite or Hercules, it is the same. That I may have the soul-life, the soul-nature, let the divine beauty bring to me divine soul. Swart Nubian, white Greek, delicate Italian, massive Scandinavian, in all the exquisite pleasure the form gave, and gives, to me immediately becomes intense prayer.

If Whitman can bring one to walk down the street looking at people that pass one in a new way — a kind of curious touch to each person — then Jefferies can cause one to see in them the distillation of sun, rain, and air on trees; a new gift to us.
Where Whitman is at pains to praise the body and the soul equally, letting neither 'abase' itself before the other, Jefferies is quite sure that the soul is higher, more important, and that the soul or the spirit is entirely lacking in nature, in the rocks, trees and sky, where Whitman sees 'God's handkerchief 'dropped at every corner. Jefferies goes further: he comments on the immense inhospitability of nature, the very sun that sends him into raptures burns and kills, the very sea is an undrinkable poison. It is a baffling contrast to Whitman at first, and is not easily resolvable; however we can leave it for now as a mark of the genuine expression of a mystic: that it is unique, and will not agree with another's tale of the ultimate. We can also find references in his book to having lived a hard life; one has the impression that he was as poor as Whitman, and as unpractised in economics, but his situation was worse, for he had a wife and children to support. The sheer hardness of extracting a living in Victorian England for a man so averse to the material spirit of that age may have found expression in his views on the in-humanness of nature: he even mentions all the hideous sea creatures, and finds dogs and horses alien to him. Yet his soul is never so uplifted as under a tree! Or by the sky or sea; rarely can you find such an extensive and sensitive relaying of a rapture with nature.
I don't agree with Jefferies about the alien and hostile nature of our environment — it is not even a question of agreeing or not, but of emphasis. He had his reasons for his emphasis; my emphasis is different, for different reasons. Firstly, I have dim recollections of previous existences as animals, and secondly, if you take a dog or a cat, it is the similarities with us that strike me all the time: if you leave out the intellectual, their emotional life has so much in common with us. As to the overall indifference of nature and human commerce to the individual: Jefferies overlooks our interdependence — in primitive times an instinctive cooperation with each other and the rhythms of nature ensured survival; in present times this translates into our technologically-based distribution of skills and activities that make it possible, for example, to buy a sandwich and cup of tea in a café. I don't know how to grow wheat, how to grind it and make it into bread, I cannot build lorries for its transport, bend huge pieces of steel for the chassis or cast metals for engine parts, weld and rivet the bodywork; I don't know how to grow tea, make ships for its transport, or extract gas from the earth to boil my water; I don't know how to milk a cow, or to grow sugar cane, or even what sugar cane looks like. I happen to know a little bit about computers; but even then it is probably humanly impossible to understand one totally, from the quantum theory of n- and p-type semiconductors in the chips, to logic gates, to chip manufacture, to software, to hardware to the making of plastic for the cases. So when the cashier uses a computer to bill me for my lunch in the café he or she may be in awe of someone who 'understands' this technology, but I am in awe of my sandwich and drink, or rather, how it got there. This interdependence that makes the simple acts of our lives possible, is to me a miracle that lifts my soul, as much as the beauty of a tree, or the so expressive curve of a limb. Jefferies is too much of a loner to see this, and perhaps for this reason sees Nature as inhospitable. But, I am not attacking Jefferies in the slightest: he has given us something quite unique in his Story, and if he were with me now perhaps he would like my views on interdependence, and perhaps he wouldn't. He was certainly at a loss to the human bustle and apparent purposelessness of the great throng of people viewed from the steps of the Royal Exchange in Victorian London, and rails against the work-ethic that prevented people from having time to reflect and be with nature (he shared this with both Whitman, Emerson, and Thoreau).
Jefferies presents us with contradictions — so much the better! But in his attitude to the eternal, he is quite classical in his discoveries, and unusually honest in admitting that he doesn't know what happens after death. He knows that this moment is eternal however; he is not worried that death may dissolve him completely, body and soul, for all of that is not now. In the following passage he is lying on the grass by a tumulus, the burial-place of a warrior of some two thousand years previous:

Realising that spirit, recognising my own inner consciousness, the psyche, so clearly, I cannot understand time. It is eternity now. I am in the midst of it. It is about me in the sunshine; I am in it, as the butterfly floats in the light-laden air. Nothing has to come; it is now. Now is eternity; now is the immortal life. Here this moment, by this tumulus, on earth, now; I exist in it. The years, the centuries, the cycles are absolutely nothing; it is only a moment since this tumulus was raised; in a thousand years more it will still be only a moment. To the soul there is no past and no future; all is and will be ever, in now. For artificial purposes time is mutually agreed on, but there is really no such thing. The shadow goes on upon the dial, the index moves round upon the clock, and what is the difference? None whatever. If the clock had never been set going, what would have been the difference? There may be time for the clock, the clock may make time for itself; there is none for me.
I dip my hand in the brook and feel the stream; in an instant the particles of water which first touched me have floated yards down the current, my hand remains there. I take my hand away, and the flow — the time — of the brook does not exist for me. The great clock of the firmament, the sun and the stars, the crescent moon, the earth circling two thousand times, is no more to me than the flow of the brook when my hand is withdrawn; my soul has never been, and never can be, dipped in time.

(This last sentence alone puts him on an equal footing with the Buddha or any other of our luminaries!) Jefferies shares Whitman's easy dismissal of all past religion; he does not make a big thing about it, but perhaps goes even further than Whitman in finding no consonance whatsoever between any previous writings and his experience. As a journalist, and one who spent time in the British Library, he would had access to Eckhart or The Cloud of Unknowing, or other mystical works; but perhaps the Christian language of these hid the similarities with his experience. We are probably better off that he had to struggle to find his own words; perhaps the only one he uses that we might recognise is the word 'prayer', and he only uses it for lack of something better. Jefferies' book is as explicit as Whitman's is implicit, yet there is not the slightest hint that Jefferies saw himself as a teacher, perhaps making the book an added delight. 
Krishnamurti on the other hand, universally known as a teacher, is rarely considered a nature mystic despite the fact that this dimension of him is often noticeable. His obstinate refusal to adopt poetic terms or traditional Hindu terms (thought he knew them) gave his message an unusual strength, but the beauty in Krishnamurti's writings comes from his serenity of mind, and never more so than when he wrote about nature. Perhaps the best of his many 'notebooks' is The Only Revolution, which introduces each section with keenly observed natural scenes, though not observed in the way that a naturalist would. Here are some examples:

The sun wasn't up yet; you could see the morning star through the trees. There was a silence that was really extraordinary. Not the silence between two noises or between two notes, but the silence that has no reason whatsoever — the silence that must have been at the beginning of the world. It filled the whole valley and the hills.
The two big owls, calling to each other, never disturbed that silence, and a distant dog barking at the late moon was part of this immensity. The dew was especially heavy, and as the sun came up over the hill it was sparkling with many colours and with the glow that comes with the sun's first rays.
The delicate leaves of the jacaranda were heavy with dew, and birds came to have their morning baths, fluttering their wings so the dew on those delicate leaves filled their feathers. The crows were particularly persistent; they would hop from one branch to another, pushing their heads through the leaves, fluttering their wings, and preening themselves. There were about half-a-dozen of them on that one heavy branch, and there were many other birds, scattered all over the tree, taking their morning bath.
And this silence spread, and seemed to go beyond the hills. There were the usual noises of children shouting, and laughter; and the farm began to wake up.
It was going to be a cool day, and now the hills were taking on the light of the sun. They were very old hills — probably the oldest in the world — with oddly shaped rocks that seemed to be carved out with great care, balanced one on top of the other; but no wind or touch could loosen them from this balance.
It was a valley far removed from towns, and the road through it led to another village. The road was rough and there were no cars or buses to disturb the ancient quietness of this valley. There were bullock carts, but their movement was a part of the hills. There was a dry river bed that only flowed with water after heavy rains, and the colour was a mixture of red, yellow and brown; and it, too, seemed to move with the hills. And the villagers who walked silently by were like the rocks.
The day wore on and towards the end of the evening, as the sun was setting over the western hills, the silence came in from afar, over the hills, through the trees, covering the little bushes and the ancient banyan. And as the stars became brilliant, so the silence grew into great intensity; you could hardly bear it.
The little lamps of the village were put out, and with sleep the intensity of that silence grew deeper, wider and incredibly over-powering. Even the hills became more quiet, for they, too, had stopped their whisperings, their movement, and seemed to lose their immense weight.

For Krishnamurti, nature's appeal is in the silence that resonates between him and it. He, like Jefferies, was glad for the minimum of modern intrusion on nature, so that the human blended with it and did not jar. In the next extract it is clear how people and their obliviousness to nature pained Krishnamurti.

On every table there were daffodils, young, fresh, just out of the garden, with the bloom of spring on them still. On a side table there were lilies, creamy-white with sharp yellow centres. To see this creamy-white and the brilliant yellow of those many daffodils was to see the blue sky, ever expanding, limitless, silent.
Almost all the tables were taken by people talking very loudly and laughing. At a table nearby a woman was surreptitiously feeding her dog with the meat she could not eat. They all seemed to have huge helpings, and it was not a pleasant sight to see people eating; perhaps it may be barbarous to eat publicly. A man across the room had filled himself with wine and meat and was just lighting a big cigar, and a look of beatitude came over his fat face. His equally fat wife lit a cigarette. Both of them appeared to be lost to the world.
And there they were, the yellow daffodils, and nobody seemed to care. They were there for decorative purposes that had no meaning at all; and as you watched them their yellow brilliance filled the noisy room. Colour has this strange effect upon the eye. It wasn't so much that the eye absorbed the colour, as that the colour seemed to fill your being. You were that colour; you didn't become that colour — you were of it, without identification or name: the anonymity which is innocence. Where there is no anonymity there is violence, in all its different forms.
But you forgot the world, the smoke-filled room, the cruelty of man, and the red, ugly meat; those shapely daffodils seemed to take you beyond all time.
Love is like that. In it there in no time, space or identity. It is the identity that breeds pleasure and pain; it is the identity that brings hate and war and builds a wall around people, around each one, each family and community. Man reaches over the wall to the other man — but he too is enclosed; morality is a word that bridges the two, and so it becomes ugly and vain.
Love isn't like that; it is like the wood across the way, always renewing itself because it is always dying. There is no permanency in it, which thought seeks; it is a movement which thought can never understand, touch or feel. The feeling of thought and the feeling of love are two different things; the one leads to bondage and the other to the flowering of goodness. The flowering is not within the area of any society, of any culture or of any religion, whereas the bondage belongs to all societies, religious beliefs and faiths in otherness. Love is anonymous, therefore not violent. Pleasure is violent, for desire and will are moving factors in it. Love cannot be begotten by thought, or by good works. The denial of the total process of thought becomes the beauty of action which is love. Without this there is no bliss of truth.
And over there, on that table, were the daffodils.			(page 145)

This is vintage Krishnamurti, and not primarily a description of nature, but is included because it shows many of his concerns and how he related them to nature. In the daffodils he 'forgot the world'; for Krishnamurti, more like Jefferies than like Whitman, was not the 'rough' type that allows for the common, coarse and good-natured. The following passage shows again Krishnamurti's sensitivity to nature (he is speaking to Asit Chandmal):

"Have you noticed, sir, " he said, "that when you enter a forest, for the first time there is a strange atmosphere, as if nature, the trees, do not want you to enter. You hesitate, and say 'It's alright,' and walk in quietly. The second day the resistance is less. And the third day it is gone."
I do not communicate with nature, and so this was something I had never discussed with Krishnamurti.

If we disregard the mystics, then we find that the love of nature tends to follow fashion in the West, and that where it is in fashion it arises from an instinct for the aesthetic and sublime, closely related to the transcendental, but often in practice in its opposition. A hatred of nature on the other hand may derive from the Gnostic and Manichean elements mentioned earlier that set the material in opposition the spiritual, and as a corruption of it. But a religious context is not required for the Western intellectual to reject nature; the primacy of mind and the domination of the intellect often breed suspicion of intractable nature. We find that Huysmans can be seen as the supreme 19th century hater of nature, and in his immortal creation, Des Essientes, he takes to the extreme the man of culture, who systematises all human knowledge and arts, who can quote from all the great writers and poets, who accumulates all the science of the day, and cannot even bear fresh air. The character is so wicked and spiteful, so completely estranged from the natural in nature and the natural in human relations, that in the end he lives alone with despised servants who are only there to help him in his greatest, last, hope when faced with the despair of a terminally jaded palette: that he can feed himself via his bottom, and not have to even eat! In the face of such a sophistication all mystics look like fools, all their contradictions and subtle hints are out of the window, for what can you say to a man of immense learning who finds the meaning of life in an enema?
The charm of Huysman's creation is that it is so absurd that you have to laugh, and of course in the end, Des Essientes has to face his human bankruptcy, and retreat from his anal precipice. Literature will always abound with such creations; American Psycho is a similar caricature of the man who has everything and knows everything on the subject of food, etiquette, music, and dress-code, and who seeks an impossible and outrageous final solution. This modern inheritor of Des Essientes' mantle doesn't even have to escape nature: there isn't any in his world to escape from.
More puzzling to us can be the attack on nature from those we might expect to love it. Lawrence surprised us earlier in his criticism of Whitman, perhaps just a peevish sort of appreciation in fact, it is hard to tell behind the ticking-off he delivers. Lawrence is the supposed champion of the sexual instincts and their spiritual dimension, and elsewhere he says that 'The Americans are not worthy of their Whitman'. It may be odder still to consider him as anti-nature, but consider his tirade against the soil in chapter nine of Studies in Classic American Literature, on Dana's Two Years Before The Mast. Lawrence is about to demolish the sea as a great source of expansion of a man's soul (remember that Whitman writes endlessly about the sea), but starts with mother earth. He says:

  What happens when you idealize the soil, the mother-earth, and really go back to it? Then with overwhelming conviction it is borne in upon you, as it was upon Thomas Hardy, that the whole scheme of things is against you. The whole massive rolling of natural fate is coming down on you like a slow glacier, to crush you to extinction. As an idealist.
  Thomas Hardy's pessimism is an absolutely true finding. It is the absolutely true statement of the idealist's last realization, as he wrestles with the bitter soil of the beloved mother-earth. He loves her, loves her, loves her. And she just entangles and crushes him like a slow Laocoön snake. The idealist must perish, says mother-earth. Then let him perish.
  The great imaginative love of the soil itself! Tolstoy had it, and Thomas Hardy. And both are driven to a kind of fanatic denial of life, as a result.

In the first sentence of the above quote lies, perhaps, Lawrence's confusion. To idealise the soil is not the same as going back to it. Certainly, to go back to it in the sense of growing your own food, curing your own leather and heating with wood you chop yourself, may crush you; maybe you will die in the attempt like the hero in Jean de Florette, but that is not the same as to idealise it. And certainly not the same thing as to love it, in the way that Whitman, Jefferies, and Krishnamurti do. Love expands, it does not crush or drive you to a fanatic denial of life. Poor Lawrence. One wonders if one could substitute 'women' for 'nature' in the above passage, and extend this analysis to the whole of his works. Perhaps Studies in Classic American Literature was just written in one of Lawrence's off-periods. I suspect that at the heart of Lawrence's attack on Whitman is the concept of otherness (I am not sure where it originates, but it is important for Lawrence), meaning something outside of oneself and alien to oneself. Women represent otherness to Lawrence, and so can nature: Lawrence has drawn a boundary around himself and perhaps is instinctively hostile to a man who refuses to do so. For when Lawrence does permit something within his orb he is sensitive and insightful into it, as he shows so often in his writings. Consider the scene in The Rainbow when Tom Brangwen (who has blue eyes incidentally!) comforts his step-daughter as her mother is in labour: the child is insisting blindly and obsessively on her mother, and in the end Brangwen takes her out in the rain and the dark to feed the cows with him:

  It was raining. The child was suddenly still, shocked, finding the rain on its face, the darkness.
  'We'll just give the cows their something-to-eat, afore they go to bed,' Brangwen was saying to her, holding her close and sure.
  There was a trickling of water into the butt, a burst of rain-drops, sputtering on to her shawl, and the light of the lantern swinging, flashing on a wet pavement and the base of a wet wall. Otherwise it was a black darkness: one breathed darkness.
  He opened the doors, upper and lower, and they entered into the high dry barn that smelled warm even if it were not warm. He hung the lantern on the nail and shut the door. They were in another world now. The light shed softly on the timbered barn, on the white-washed walls, and the great heap of hay; instruments cast their shadows largely, a ladder rose to the dark arch of a loft. Outside there was the driving rain, inside, the softly-illuminated stillness and calmness of the barn.
  Holding the child on one arm, he set about preparing the food for the cows, filling a pan with chopped hay and brewer's grains and a little meal. The child, all wonder, watched what he did. A new being was created in her for the new conditions. Sometimes, a little spasm, eddying from the bygone storm of sobbing, shook her small body. Her eyes were wide and wondering, pathetic. She was silent, quite still.

A new being was created in her for the new conditions. Lawrence is saying no more or less than Whitman by showing that we have this capacity to be the universe, or whatever presents itself of it at any time. The child became the barn and its tools and hay and snuffing cows — if we read the passage attentively so do we, and it is a tribute to Lawrence's gifts that we do. And for the child the new world displaced the previous one, and every parent will recognise this scene — Brangwen's instincts as a father were good. Lawrence writes from sensitive observation, and in a language of his own making; perhaps the language of Whitman, this bold, bright, American bigness, simply hurt him, and he had to deny it.
To go back to the idea of boundaries: modern terminology includes a psychological concept of boundary, and of an individual's mental health somehow depending on the proper maintenance of boundaries. Whitman is obviously a man with boundaries in this sense: as we saw from his biographers, he could 'freeze' out bores, and many other accounts of him suggest a rock of a man — hardly one from whom his identity had leaked out. I am reminded of an Indian story from Ramakrishna of a snake who came upon an enlightened monk, and was so impressed that he asked the monk how to achieve enlightenment. The monk told him that for a start he would have to adopt non-violence, and not to bite and poison the village folk who were in terror of him. The snake readily agreed, but the monk was surprised some months later to meet him again in a sorry state: the snake was battered and half-starved. 'I have followed your advice, holy one,' said the snake, 'I have followed the path of non-violence, and meditated, but the villagers now take every opportunity to beat me with sticks, and I hardly dare venture out.' The monk replied, 'But I did not advise you to stop hissing.' To love nature is part of an expansiveness in which one loses ones boundaries, but only in one sense: there is no reason for the 'smaller' person to stop defending itself against attack or danger.
Before returning to the love of nature (and of trees in particular) I am inclined to comment on a spate of articles published at the time of writing and expressing a once-again fashionable distaste for nature. Quentin Crisp, in a defence of his love for people and also in defence of the concept of doing little more than breathing and blinking as opposed to wasting time with hobbies, says this about nature:

I have never tarried for long in the countryside and I hope I never shall. People try to sell me the countryside by saying, "Well, you like to get out of the city sometimes don't you." "No."
"Well, it's nice to get some fresh air into your lungs occasionally, isn't it?" "No."
We can keep this dialog up for hours, but I remain unshaken. I don't like leaves, I don't like blades of grass. I like steel and glass and cement — all things that are inanimate and do not threaten me. The only living thing I like is people.

If you can like people enough then perhaps there is no need for nature. Other articles interviewing London city dwellers are uncovering an anti-nature current in recent thinking, perhaps a reaction to the 'good life' prophets of recent decades who advocated growing your own food and so on, an over-optimistic return to Nature that soon brings one up against its intractability.
After looking at individuals with a range of attitudes towards nature, it may be worth reflecting on three cases where mystics have claimed that their moment of transformation or enlightenment actually took place in Nature, that is under a tree. The best known is undoubtedly the case of the Buddha who is said to have been enlightened under the 'Bo' tree, a descendent of which is treated as a shrine to Buddhism to this day, and receives thousands of visitors every year in Northern India. As we saw in the previous chapter, Krishnamurti was also enlightened under a tree, in his case a pepper tree in Ojai Valley California. There is a photograph of it in Asit Chandmal's photo-diary of Krishnamurti, and one can even see that a low wall has been built around it to indicate its special importance.
The third example of enlightenment under a tree is that of Rajneesh, at the age of twenty-one, who described the experiences in the transcripts of one of his talks ('The Discipline of Transcendence, lecture #21'). It was on the 21st March 1953, and was the culmination of seven days of 'let-go', where his previously intense period of disciplined meditation had led him to a point of despair, and hopelessness. He gave up his usual practices, to the surprise of the family he lived with, and took to laying in his room or sitting in the local park with no aim or purpose. Something was growing in him, something that took him over — the 'whole' entered him, and worked upon him; he says hope disappeared (for he had worked so hard for this goal, over many lifetimes), he no longer strived for anything. He was in an abyss — but with no fear, because there was no-one was there to be afraid. On the seventh night he felt stifled and oppressed in his small room (like Krishnamurti in his room in Ojai), an expansion that was so intense bore down on him that nothing made sense to him (a professor of philosophy) — and found himself, at about midnight, to be out of doors, and heading for the park. The gates were closed so he had to climb over them, and was drawn towards a large tree (possibly a mulberry). Under that tree he finally 'shattered' — his past disappeared, it no longer belonged to him, as if it was a story told to him by someone else; boundaries and distinctions were disappearing — mind was disappearing. Mind was receding, rushing away, but he had no urge to cling to it. It felt so intense, painfully intense, that he could only compare the experience to giving birth. Or was he going to die? He was not afraid — nothing more was needed, those last seven days had been so blissful that he was complete, but something was coming, a birth or a death. All the polarities were meeting, all the opposites were meeting in him: he had become the source of all; he was drowning in ecstacy. For the first time he experienced reality. Under the tree, for about three hours (though time had ceased for him), the new state took root in him, settled him, and marked his permanent transition to the enlightened state. (More on Rajneesh in the next chapter.)
Of course, I am not suggesting in these discussions of Nature that all mystics have to love nature and be enlightened under trees; many a mystic will have found nature harsh and unforgiving, and a force to be treated with caution. Many mystics describe only their soul, and have no interest in the outside world, let alone be poetic about it. However, I would suggest that an unfanciful sensitivity to nature is a sign of a possible mystic; one who simply is, cannot fail to fall into some kind of harmony with everything else that simply is, as with Whitman's tree. In the Sartre section of this book we will see again how a tree figures strongly in what could be a mystical experience.

2.6 Douglas Harding

Whitman's expansiveness is so unique that he illuminates Jefferies and Krishnamurti rather than the other way round; this means that we have to look at a complementary teaching to shed light on him, and to do this I have chosen the work of Douglas Harding. He is a retired English architect and physically reminiscent of Whitman, both in appearance and in his manner of engagement with his eleves. His teachings, which are as explicit, direct, and persuasive, as Whitman's are elusive, subtle and indirect, can leave much the same impact on one. Any reader who has come across Harding's books may be baffled that I should find a connection between them and the work and life of Whitman, especially as Whitman more than any represents the via positiva, and Douglas an exponent of via negativa (though not entirely). Whitman's clear-cut distinction between body and soul is common to both men, but Whitman immediately refutes any hierarchy between them and welds the two together: Harding rends them asunder and makes it clear to us where his home is: not with the mortal part. Both tell us however that they, and by extension any one of us, are not what they seem to be: Harding has an up-front anatomy of this, almost a science, whereas Whitman uses poetry and indirection to merely hint at it. Harding was trained as an architect (and has lived for many years in a house of his own design), and it is typical of the architect, who, as an artist that has to deal with obdurate physicality in all its aspects, from the sculptural to the engineering to the provision of sewerage and running water, is temperamentally inclined to be the mechanic of the soul.
My understanding of Harding is not through his books however or through biographies, but first-hand, and, I suspect, a little at odds with his writings. I first met him in my mid-twenties, and participated in one of his workshops alongside many other meditation and psychotherapeutic activities. His methods have hardly changed since then, apart from minor refinements and a few additions. At the time I was wholly involved with the Rajneesh movement (more of which later), but Douglas had at least as big an impact on me. Rajneesh was in favour of the guru-disciple relationship that we have examined and he placed a definite value on a 'transmission'. He said many times that the relationship, regardless of the teaching, was not just important for the aspirant at a time where their own realisation was partial and shaky and therefore needed the example of one who was fully established in it, but for a love that was mutual and self-justifying. While I accepted this, there were simply too many people around Rajneesh for me to establish this kind of relationship, and so it remained a theory. Harding has never attracted the huge followings of Rajneesh or Krishnamurti, and was thus more available to personal contact, which began for me about fifteen years prior to the time of writing; however he is explicitly against the guru-disciple relationship (as was Krishnamurti), and as an example of this dissects with great humour an imaginary relationship with an acolyte in The Trial of the Man Who Said He was God. His point, of course, is that the infinite and eternal (to use my terminology) that another lives in is of absolutely no use to the aspirant: it is their own apprehension of it that is vital, and guru-worship can so easily be used to postpone the moment of realising it oneself  (and for Harding this has to be done now; no preparation is needed or is possible). Yet, for me at least, Harding's own access means that his presence alone always has meaning for me, and, while not indulging my devotional instincts in the way that the fictional Sister Marie-Louise does in the Trial, I have not suppressed them either. Harding not only does not require external expression of devotion, he forbids it, but at the same time I suspect that he is aware of moments when his teachings come home to the seekers around him: he commented once to me that something had happened between us. Like all teachers he lives for the ones who are not 'baffled' by him. 
I have mentioned a few times that I possess a kind of imagination that can encompass the sun and the moon and the stars as within me, a 'cosmic' imagination if you will, but at the same time not the fiction-creating imagination, rather some faculty for resonating with the sublime that artists and mystics seem to share. The physical presence of Harding has evoked this in me at times; I have sometimes felt it as though he were a fountain or volcano, but I want the reader to be wary of this imagery, in just the same way as one should be of Arjuna's cosmic visions (or Vivekananda's or Andrew Harvey's). Bucke's description of it as a light-headedness, or falling in love, are also appropriate: in one of my poems I compare it to being hit with an iron bar (see Appendix). My purpose in raising again the experiences that students may undergo with their teachers is not to attach any undue weight to such experiences or feelings, but merely to illuminate the quandary that teachers always find themselves in: like a parent they are needed temporarily, but unlike parents, they must ensure the independence of the aspirant at the very start. In theistic religions the devotional can be deflected towards the deity, but Harding simply ignores it, outwardly at least.
Harding's methods bear no relation to any established religious practice, or to any other teacher in history, and are so simple as to be almost impossible to convey. He is widely read in mysticism and can relate what he does to any of the world's religious and mystical traditions, but this is apres-ski; his unique ski-slope is described as headlessness. It really is a slippery slope, his teachings, leaving one with nothing to hold on to, least of all one's head. After all the Zen teachings of no-mind, and the psycho-babble talk of coming out of one's head and into one's heart, Douglas faces one and points out the literal fact that one has no head. Leaving aside memory and imagination, he will intone in his hypnotic baritone-bass, what have you got on top of your shoulders? On present evidence, he will say (and I can hear him say it in my mind, such is his curious and almost insidious way of getting inside you), discounting all that you have been told, what is in its place? And the only answer of course is — the whole world. The following passage both explains the origins of Harding's teachings, and illustrates the condition:

What actually happened was something absurdly simple and unspectacular: I stopped thinking. A peculiar quiet, an odd kind of alert limpness or numbness, came over me. Reason and imagination and all mental chatter died down. For once, words really failed me. Past and future dropped away. I forgot who and what I was, my name, manhood, animalhood, all that could be called mine. It was as if I had been born that instant, brand new, mindless, innocent of all memories. There existed only the Now, that present moment and what was clearly given in it. To look was enough, and what I found was khaki trouserlegs terminating downwards in a pair of brown shoes, khaki sleeves terminating sideways in a pair of pink hands, and a khaki shirtfront terminating upwards in — absolutely nothing whatever! Certainly not a head.
It took me no time at all to notice that this nothing, this hole where a head should have been, was no ordinary vacancy, no mere nothing. On the contrary it was very much occupied. It was a vast emptiness vastly filled, a nothing that found room for everything — room for grass, trees, shadowy distant hills, and far above them snow-peaks like a row of angular clouds riding the blue sky. I had lost a head and gained a world.
It was all, quite literally, breathtaking. I seemed to stop breathing altogether, absorbed in the Given. Here it was, this superb scene, brightly shining in the clear air, alone and unsupported, mysteriously suspended in the void, and (and this was the real miracle, the wonder and delight) utterly free of "me", unstained by any observer. Its total presence was my total absence, body and soul. Lighter than air, clearer than glass, altogether released from myself, I was nowhere around.
Yet in spite of the magical and uncanny quality of this vision, it was no dream, no esoteric revelation. Quite the reverse: it felt like a sudden waking from the sleep of ordinary life, an end to dreaming. It was self-luminous reality for once swept clean of all obscuring mind. It was the revelation, at long last, of the perfectly obvious. It was a lucid moment in a confused life-history. It was a ceasing to ignore something which (since early childhood at any rate) I had always been too busy or too clever to see. It was naked, uncritical attention to what had all along been staring me in the face — my utter facelessness. In short, it was all perfectly simple and plain and straightforward, beyond argument, thought, and words. There arose no questions, no reference beyond the experience itself, but only peace and a quiet joy, and the sensation of having dropped an intolerable burden.

We notice in this passage a similarity to the descriptions given by Ramakrishna, Ramana Maharshi, Krishnamurti, and Rajneesh of a moment when thought ceases and the infinite and eternal takes hold. What is unusual in Harding's expression of it is headlessness. His temperament and means of expression have an affinity with the 'sudden' enlightenment of Zen, and in the early days of his teaching he was promoted by Buddhist groups (the first edition of On Having No Head was published by the Buddhist Society in Eccleston Square). He was too radical for most of them however, provoking this comment: "The talks and study groups [at a Buddhist summer school] run from Therevada to Zen, through Zoroastrianism and Vedanta, to a sort of bizarre synthesis of ancient and modern teachings, whose pundit encourages his disciples to spend substantial periods of time with paper bags over their heads." This is an obvious reference to Harding's paper bag experiment, outlined below, and perhaps typical of how he is misunderstood (he has never suggested spending more than five or ten minutes on the paper bag experiment). In fact all kinds of religious organisations invite Harding to give his unique workshops all over the world (which, at the time of writing, he still does in his mid-eighties), including Ramana Maharshi groups. Harding's affinity with Maharshi lie in the emphasis on establishing or even merely 'noticing' one's true identity; he says of his experience in India quoted above that it had not been the result of any formal meditation or practice, but with a preoccupation with the question of his own identity. Harding cites both the Buddha and Maharshi in the following passage:

The Buddha's description of Nirvana, in the Pali Canon, as "visible in this life, inviting, attractive, accessible," is clearly true and makes perfect sense. So does Master Ummon's statement that the first step along the Zen Path is to see into our Void Nature: getting rid of our bad karma comes after — not before — that seeing. So does Ramana Maharshi's insistence that it is easier to see What and Who we really are than to see "a gooseberry in the palm of our hand" — as so often, this Hindu sage confirms Zen teaching. All of which means there are no preconditions for this essential in-seeing. To oneself one's Nature is forever clearly displayed, and it's amazing how one could ever pretend otherwise. It's available now, just as one is, and doesn't require the seer to be holy, or learned, or clever, or special in any way. Rather the reverse! What a superb advantage and opportunity this is!

Unlike Krishna who revealed his infinite nature to Arjuna in order to persuade Arjuna to contemplate the imperishable, Douglas helps one see one's own infinite in a more direct and repeatable way. As I have already mentioned, the infinite nature of another person is of no value, according to Douglas, nor is any kind of devotion to the infinite in another of any value. His technique involves a series of 'experiments' with all the exhortations to scientific rigour that the word implies, though they are based on the consensus of the first person, unlike conventional science which is based on the consensus of the third person. 
In the conventional physical sciences the first person is the experimenter and the second person (or subject matter) is the object of one's experiment: it might involve lenses and light, electronic circuits and electromagnetism, or biological tissue and chemical substances. The third person, or third persons, is the rest of the scientific community who have an interest in the hypothesis that the experimenter is evaluating, and the possibility to repeat the experiments in order to verify or disprove the hypothesis. Out of this arrives the consensus of the third person and all scientific orthodoxies. In the social sciences, and in particular psychology, the second person in these experiments is just that: a person, or a group of persons, and the route to scientific orthodoxies in these fields follow a similar path to the physical sciences though it is debatable how well the parallel holds. It is still, in its conceptual model at least, a consensus of the third person. Douglas's experiments follow a consensus of the first person in this sense: questions are established (all of which relate to "who am I?") and a group of people carry out a process involving observations on their own perceiving, resulting in answers to the questions. The second person or object of the experiment is the experimenter him or herself; a guide may be present in the form of Douglas, but the third person has no entry to the experiment (and an unprepared third party may even find the proceedings rather comical). The moment that the third person, acquainted with Douglas's hypotheses, wishes to verify them they become the first person in carrying out the experiment. Another way of saying this is that mysticism is a science whose subject matter is you in the first person.
Most of Douglas's experiments revolve around the sense of sight, and are designed to bring home to one an essential asymmetry between the observer and other human beings, an asymmetry that paradoxically brings one to the kind of love for others that Whitman expressed — a simple openness to their existence. An example of an experiment to show this involves four people, or more accurately, three people and the observer (first person). The observer stands facing one of the others, while the other two stand in such a way that their line of sight is at right angles to the observer's and across the observer's, i.e. in a little cross-shape. As one stands, looking at the face opposite, one is asked to notice that the 'first-person' type of looking between the observer and the person opposite is quite different to the 'third-person' type of looking that the other two are engaged in. In one's own looking there is no face or head at the observer's end; the only face one possesses is the one opposite. Instead of a face of one's own one has space, space for all the world. For the other two, they are truly 'face to face' — closed at both ends of the gap between them by matter — matter that has shape, colour, and detail; prone to age, decay and death, quite unlike one's own which has no boundaries, which is colourless and featureless, and — thank God! is deathless. One could not read this page if one were not built open for it — built open for loving.
In Douglas's workshops he arranges the participants into the necessary groupings to carry out the experiments (four in the above example) and then talks the group through them: he invites one to see what one really sees. I have to confess that I find him an essential part of the experiment, and that when another person acts as a guide for experiment I find something missing. Similarly, I have had little urge to introduce the experiments to others, even when asked about Douglas's teachings; however I regard this as my own deficiency. (I hope to remedy this, perhaps in connections with recent developments in studies in consciousness.) Probably the best known of Douglas's experiments involves the use of a paper bag open at each end. Two participants are invited to fit the bag over their faces so that they look at each other's face unencumbered by any surrounding other than the luminous white of the bag, mostly out of focus at that. It is a claustrophobic experience, and a threatening one: only in encounter groups is one asked to look this closely into another person's face, but of course, with Douglas there is no intention to engage emotionally with the situation. He invites one to notice again the difference between what is at one end of the bag and what is at the other end — a radical difference and, in normal life, almost always overlooked. (Harding has commented that at one end there is nothing material, and at the other end there is nothing spiritual.) The simplicity and ludicrousness of the bag situation are an affront to the intellect, and, with luck it retires hurt so that one can get on with noticing the pristine spotlessness and eternal nature of one's own end of the bag. It is as humiliating to the ego as potty-training, and only Harding can get away with it; it is no coincidence perhaps that amongst his many observations about our infinite nature he has commented that in visiting the toilet one connects up 'miles of extra tubing'. Did I say mechanic of the soul? Plumber more likely!
Whether we call Harding a scientist, mechanic, or plumber of the soul, it cannot prepare one for the dignity, warmth and humour of the man, and an unmistakably English quality (I have joked with him that he is one of the few great British exports in mysticism). Douglas's teachings challenges one's identity, as do the teachings of all the mystics though in different ways. He recalls that he was absolutely plagued in his early life with self-consciousness — a really 'virulent British sort' (as he calls it) that I know only too well in my own life — which was quite destroyed by his discovery of headlessness. He is no longer a small vulnerable mortal physical entity in a vast and indifferent universe (indifferent at best, probably hostile in fact), but the very source of it. In their own unique ways Krishna, Whitman, and Harding are all saying this, and Bucke, I think, had a valuable insight when he proposed that the mystic makes a transition from self-consciousness to cosmic consciousness, despite his desire to see evolutionary implications in it. Harding elaborates further on the various stages on his headless path in chapter four of On Having No Head, and, for the really brave, I recommend The Hierarchy of Heaven and Earth. 
Harding does not recommend long periods in the paper bag, whatever others say, but what does he recommend as a general practice? He offers this:

Now the "hard" part begins, which is the repetition of this headless seeing-into Nothingness till the seeing becomes quite natural and nothing special at all; till, whatever one is doing, it's clear that nobody's here doing it. In other words, till one's whole life is structured round the double-barbed arrow of attention, simultaneously pointing in at the Void and out at what fills it. Such is the essential meditation of this Way. It is meditation for the market-pace, in fact for every circumstance and mood, but it may usefully be supplemented by regular periods of more formal meditation — for example, a daily sitting in a quiet place enjoying exactly the same seeing, either alone or (better) with friends.
Here, in fact, is a meditation which doesn't threaten to divide our day into two incompatible parts — a time of withdrawal and quiet recollection, and a time of self-forgetful immersion in the world's turmoil. On the contrary, the whole day comes to have the same feel, a steady quality throughout. Whatever we have to do or take or suffer can thus be turned to our immediate advantage: it provides just the right opportunity to notice Who is involved. (To be precise, absolutely involved yet absolutely uninvolved.) In short, of all forms of meditation this is among the least contrived and obtrusive, and (given time to mature) the most natural and practical. And amusing too: it's as if one's featureless Original Face wore a smile like that of the disappearing Cheshire Cat!

I have suggested that, in contrast to Whitman, Harding is offering via negativa, that is a focus on the Void as opposed to the Whole of its contents. I believe that the emphasis on headlessness, the Space, the Void or whatever we call it is inevitable in teaching because of our unfamiliarity with it; as Harding comments somewhere the Upanishads pointed out some three thousand years ago that our senses point out to the world and it takes an effort to direct them back at the Perceiver. However, Harding does not wish us to wallow in our superb nothingness either. In Head Off Stress he advocates an identification with both the nothing and the everything as the cure for the modern affliction of stress:

Two escape routes lie open to you. The first is to become so small, so empty, so exclusive that there's nothing to you, nothing to be got at, nothing to act upon or react. The second is the opposite of this. It is to become so big, so full, so inclusive that there remains nothing outside you to get at you, nothing to pressurize you or to influence you at all, nothing left for you to react to.
Let's put it differently. Particular things are stressed. If you were no thing you would be stress-free. Conversely, if you were all things you would, again, be stress-free. And if, by great good luck, you were both — if you were at once no thing and all things — why then you would be doubly stress-free, free beyond all doubt. This way, you would avoid being one of those unlucky intermediate things — things which are neither empty enough nor full enough to be free from stress. You would avoid falling between the two stools of total emptiness and total fullness, by sitting firmly on both stools at the same time. As nothing and everything you would be sitting pretty. You would be safe as well as comfortable. You would have arrived at our goal. You would already be established in the promised Land of No Stress, no matter how long it took you to feel at home and to get acclimatized.
Well, I say you are sitting pretty, you are as lucky as that!

This passage clearly shows Harding's balanced view that both the manifest and the unmanifest have to be embraced; Whitman has no terminology for the unmanifest, so it looks like he sits on only one of Harding's stools. Nevertheless, Harding's work is primarily via negativa, and so complements Whitman (it also provides for an analysis of modern man's alienation which Whitman could observe but not comment on). We could also consider that the impulse or intuition towards one or other of these stools is shown in misguided forms, for example the person who seeks enormous wealth or power is attempting to become everything, while the vagabond, tramp, or beggar attempts to become nothing. Other factors play a part in these extremes of course, but it should be recognised that something deeper is going on with the millionaire and vagabond than just good fortune or bad fortune.
This is a good point to examine the charge laid against Harding and Whitman that their teachings are solipsistic, and to look at this issue in connection with mysticism. The Chambers 20th Century Dictionary gives this definition of solipsism: "the theory that self-existence is the only certainty, absolute egoism - the extreme form of subjective idealism; from the Latin roots solus, alone and ipse, self". Clearly, for many people the term would carry a negative connotation because of the 'absolute egoism' that it implies. The idea that one is the centre of the universe, the beginning and ending of all things, and that all other phenomenon, including other people, are part of a flux the only unchanging and permanent part of which is oneself, is at the heart of the mystics' sayings, and at the same time (at face value) both absurd and egoistic. Another common form of this is identity with God, as discussed earlier; also a statement that can arouses violent condemnation.
Nambiar quotes an appropriate passage from Rumi in which Rumi defends Mansur's 'I am God' against the very same charge of egoism:

This is what is signified by the words Ana'L Haqq, "I am God". People imagine that this is a presumptuous claim, whereas it is really a presumptuous claim to say "Ana'L Abd", " I am the slave of God"; and Ana'l Haqq, "I am God", is the expression of great humility. The man who says Ana'L Abd, "I am the slave of God" affirms two existences, his own and God's, but he who says Ana'L Haqq, "I am God", says "I am naught, He is all; there is nothing but God". Rumi finds this "the extreme of humility and self-abasement".

Solipsism is also a frightening idea because of the 'alone' part of its Latin root, present in the modern meaning of the word as an implied refusal to recognise others. In Harding's work this appears as an asymmetry: at the near end of the bag there is something (a nothing actually) quite different from what is seen at the far end of the bag — a reassuringly familiar face, even if it is of a stranger. Douglas finds that he is 'gone'; the universe is just 'built' this way, but also finds love in it. It is love of course that removes the sting of this uniqueness and loss of similarity with one's fellows: as one begins to identify with the 'space' for all things and see one's fellows as content of the space love restores to them their familiarity, or better makes them for the first time truly loveable. Edgar Cacey said that we meet only ourselves: how can one fail to love these manifestations of our true self?
The expansive and solipsistic nature of the PCM world-view can lead to the fear of a callousness or indifference to the suffering of others, or to mild forms of megalomania, or in extreme cases to madness. It is vital not to underestimate that the jump from the 'normal' identification to the mystic identification with the cosmos implies a radical transformation of the individual — if this is occurs too fast or in an uneven way all kinds of problems can arise. Hence the emphasis in so many traditions on love and surrender, or, as exemplified in Buddhism, compassion. The Mahayana Buddhist teaching, that no individual should 'accept' enlightenment before ensuring that all others are enlightened first is firmly grounded in good pedagogy, but from Harding's perspective one's own enlightenment is the liberation of others. Love, surrender, compassion are emphasised by all mystical teachers, though it becomes hard to distinguish between these as pedagogical issues and as a natural outcome of the unitive state. Harding also counters the notion that identification with the Whole is special, euphoric or any kind of 'high', by calling it a valley experience — it is neither a peak nor a valley experience of course (something neutral in fact), but it is good to call it a valley experience to counter the sensation-seekers.

2.7 Whitman and Pure Consciousness Mysticism

Let us return to Whitman and his Leaves of Grass. Where Leaves matches the Gita is in the expansiveness of it; Krishna's long recitation of the phenomenon of the natural world and his underpinning of them, find its counterpart in Whitman's inclusivity. Whitman simply keeps stating that he is this and he is that: just to bring something into his orbit is for Whitman to become it. There are similarities with the Tao Te Ching, as Carpenter pointed out; which is a  quiet thing that also insinuates itself into your soul, quite unlike the drama and passion of the Gita. Both Lao Tzu and Whitman strike me as speaking of life after enlightenment, rather than the path to it, as in most Hindu and Buddhist texts. But Leaves is as different from the Gita as it is from the Tao; it has little history (in the West at least) of being read intentionally as a religious text. With the Gita we have to work hard to subtract out the religious and the cultural, but with Leaves Whitman does not inadvertently obscure his message with the religious language of his time; instead he deliberately obscures it through poetical device. Once we know this Leaves can be read, as we have done, as a text in Pure Consciousness Mysticism. We still are left with one cultural influence on his work: Leaves is indisputably American, representing probably all that is best in the truly American impulse: expansive, generous, brash. It nods in respect to its European roots, but moves on, in contrast to Nietzsche, for example, who attempts to shoulder the crushing burden of Europe's decay.
Krishna codified the mysticism of the Vedas, and added his own special something to it, in his sometimes harsh and uncompromising advice to Arjuna to fight. What does Whitman add to our understanding of mysticism? Something quite new, and relevant to our time, I would say: democracy. Democracy was unknown to Krishna: he was a prince, Arjuna was of the warrior caste, and Krishna speaks openly as being the creator of the caste system, the horrors of which we include under the broad heading of feudalism, and try to consign to the past. The industrial and social revolutions that lead to post-civil war America in the 19th Century made democracy a reality, and Whitman is its poet. At the time of writing the term democracy has possibly lost some of the optimistic associations it had in Whitman's time, and clearly Whitman's use of the word democracy is not as a description of a specific form of constitution or governmental and electoral apparatus: it is about its root impulse. Democracy for Whitman had its basis in love, but meant something practical too — a recognition of one's fellow citizen from which springs the willingness to listen, to participate, to debate, and to accept the community's decisions, without which the best legislated constitution in the world has no meaning. Democracy for Whitman also gives each person a value that the feudal structures deny, and he is quite clear that the religions that arose in feudal times have had their day and must give way to something new.
What could democracy mean in the context of mysticism however? Clearly the issues of mysticism cannot be decided by voting, any more than an individual can seek election to the eternal and infinite through a mandate from his or her community. No, the relevance must lie in the availability of it. Krishna insists on a devotion to his person (or perhaps through his person) which is a route still open to those who have a strongly developed and instinctively devotional nature; Mother Meera and many others are available as a modern equivalent (though it would be misleading to suggest that she encourages devotion to her person). But it is not really in keeping with the ethos of our time, for it places the object of devotion on a pedestal long since tarnished by autocratic abuse. Whitman is honest about himself as mystic: he is a rare being, and rare will be those who really understand him, but nevertheless, he excludes no-one, and finds that the sun shines on the prostitute as much as on him, that waters glisten and rustle for her as much as for him, and his words glisten and rustle for her as much as for anyone. Everybody has access to his expansivity and deathlessness, if they can but partake of Leaves.
But how can you partake of Leaves if you don't know what you are looking for? Whitman's only pedagogy is the hypnotic effect of his recitations, he offers us no route or method to join him: just a jump across an unbridgeable abyss.
Harding offers us the bridge. He shows us directly the expansive and eternal nature of our beings, in front of our noses. There is no moral elevation, intellectual illumination, or devotional practice involved: we just have to work at it, to see what we are looking out of. There is no need for difficult terminology either, or abstract philosophical concepts: what we are looking out of is plain English for the unmanifest. Harding's truths are not hidden by a furtive old hen, they are plain and stubbornly in yer face, as modern youth might put it, and there is a manifest democracy in his followers too, perhaps due to Harding's lack of emphasis on improvement of the individual. This cuts out the speculation, often rife amongst communities of seekers, as to who is making best 'progress'; instead, with his emphasis on 'seeing' one's infinite nature right now as the space for all that is manifest, one tends to embrace others in something of the neutral Whitman fashion.
Pure Consciousness Mysticism however requires only that an individual identify with the infinite and the eternal; no particular route to it is better than any other, even though Whitman's and Harding's democratic approaches are more in tune with the times than the devotional. Our discussions of nature mysticism do suggest the possibility that the devotional impulse (for it is as perennial as the grass) might be appropriately directed towards nature. Nietzsche, as we shall see in the next chapter, may have realised this when he said that to blaspheme against nature was the only blasphemy now. It is hard however, to see how a pedagogy can be built from Whitman's tree, Jefferies' sky, and Krishnamurti's daffodil, other than the silence it can engender in one. I also know from personal experience that love of nature is different to the devotion for a guru, and that both can be equally intense. I would like to leave it as an unanswered but very important question in Pure Consciousness Mysticism, how to make a pedagogy from the love of nature, other than to suggest we consider the silence and sublimity of nature; that Jefferies' idea of our human form as a distillate of nature be pursued, and that nature be seen as simply a joyous manifestation of the unmanifest. It is important, perhaps even urgent, to develop a nature mysticism because of the disrepute that devotion has fallen into and because of the ecological problems of the planet.