Walt Whitman, the American man of space, the man of popping up, of vocal swing, of the breath carried to its greatest amplitude, this man stands forever with his cries, his rages, his fervors. So much raw energy, so much naïvety, so many sound intuitions keep on activating the heart, exalting the body. It is the chance of a swell bath, with in addition this singular joy, heretic in poetry, to roam cheerfully on good feelings. Whitman wears and takes, provokes, takes by the arm, lengthens the step, amplifies the echo and reveals to each one his voice as a man.
"American solitaire pushed like a skyscraper in an uncultivated desert of low-storey houses," says Jacques Darras, Walt Whitman appears today in this spot of watchman: he breathes high, he sees far, he foreshadows a fraternally habitable world.