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Facile and arrogant blowhard or thoroughgoing genius of conveying human experience, I don’t much care. Walt Whitman crafted some of the most pivotal poetry in history. Whether it was all for what we now call clout or an outpouring of praise for humanity in all of its messy contradictions, Song of Myself intones clamorously and everlasting.

Whitman wrote pseudonymous reviews of his own work and, honestly, respect for the hustle. A man cannot be faulted for being a little obnoxious in trying to make a name for himself if he puts in the effort and believes in what he is doing. (This is not a veiled confession. I would undoubtedly fall to scathing myself in such an attempt).