As much as I respect this text (and I do, it should be read), I have always said from the moment I finished reading that Wordsworth here is like a child constantly kicking away the ball he keeps bending over to pick up.
Currently reading Brodsky and this line from his Less Than One essay really sums up Wordsworth’s autobiographical quest and does it more justice than I’ve snarked for the last five or six years: “As failures go, attempting to recall the past is like trying to grasp the meaning of existence. Both make one feel like a baby clutching at a basketball: one’s palms keep sliding off.”
That’s it. The Prelude summarised in one line.