leaves of grass

I've never though of grass as growing in leaves. I think of grass as blades of grass or just grass but never leaves. Perhaps it was different in Walt Whitman's time.

I browsing Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman, I came across a poem:

When I Read the Book.

When I read the book, the biography famous,
And this is then (said I) what the author calls a man's life?
And so will someone when I am dead and gone write my life?
(As if any man really knew aught of my life?
Why even I myself I often think know little or nothing of my real life,
Only a few hints, a few diffused faint clews and indirections
I seek for my own use to trace out here.)

It kind of reminded me of the book I am reading. Miles/Pudge is always looking at people's last words. Hoping his will be as magnificent. But he doesn't know what they'll be like he can only hope that he won't be the one who asks for water on his death bed.

It's weird to write about a person that you don't know, it's weird to write about yourself also. I don't think I'd want someone to write a biography about me and I don't think Whitman was very fond of the idea either. I think he found it strange.