A Chill Reading Thoreau This Winter
For a nice change of pace I’ve turned to some different reading subjects lately. One of them was revisiting Henry David Thoreau, as I often do in the winter months. This time I did not read Walden or “Civil Disobedience” or any of his other famous writings. Instead, I enjoyed a few of his essays.
Thoreau’s writing style really captures the wonder and majesty of nature. He finds the extraordinary in ordinary things like snow, leaves, fields, creeks and woodland animals. I read him and instantly connect with my own experience of being in my woods or hiking and camping elsewhere throughout the years of my life. I wrote about reading him back in February 2009. Typically, I read a few pages of him during the cold season. It seems fitting to me. Don’t ask me why.
The oldest parts of my library are mostly paperbacks from my high school and college days. My copy of The Portable Thoreau dates from 1977. The pages are yellowed and marked up different ways as I read it different times throughout my life. The cover is taped on. This year I read “A Natural History of Massachusetts,” “A Winter Walk,” and a couple of essays from The Maine Woods. Here is a sampling of quotes that resonate with me, some of which I entered here over a decade ago.
“In society you will not find health, but in nature. Unless our feet at least stood in the midst of nature, all our faces would be pale and livid. Society is always diseased and the best is the most so. There is no scent in it so wholesome as that of the pines, nor the fragrance so penetrating and restorative as the life-everlasting in high pastures. I would keep some book of natural history always by me as a sort of elixir, the reading of which should restore the tone of the system.” (page 33)
“In the winter, I stop short in the path to admire how the trees grow up without forethought, regardless of the time and circumstances. They do not wait as man does, but now is the golden age of the sapling. Earth, air, sun and rain are occasion enough: they were no better in primeval centuries. The ‘winter of their discontent’ never comes. Witness the buds of the native poplar standing gaily out to the frost on the sides of its bare switches. They express a naked confidence.” (page 51)
“A lurid brazen light in the east proclaims the approach of day, while the western landscape is dim and spectral still, and clothed in a somber Tartarean light, like the shadowy realms. They are Infernal sounds only that you hear – the crowing of cocks, the barking of dogs, the chopping of wood, the lowing of kine, all seem to come from Plato’s barnyard and beyond the Styx – not for any melancholy they suggest, but their twilight bustle is too solemn and mysterious for earth. The recent tracks of the fox or otter, in the yard, remind us that each hour of the night is crowded with events, and the primeval nature is still working and making tacks in the snow.” (page 58)
“The wonderful purity of nature at this season is a most pleasing fact. Every decayed stump and moss-grown stone and rail, and the dead leaves of autumn, are concealed by a clean napkin of snow. In the bare fields and tinkering woods, see what virtue survives. In the coldest and bleakest places, the warmest charities still maintain a foothold. A cold and searching wind drives away all contagion, and nothing can withstand it but what has a virtue in it, and accordingly, whatever we meet with in cold and leak places, as the tops of mountains, we respect for a sort of sturdy innocence, a Puritan toughness. All things beside seem to be called in for shelter, and what stays out must be part of the original frame of the universe, and of such valor as God himself. It is invigorating to breathe the cleansed air. Its greater fineness and purity are visible to the eye, and we would fain stay out long and late, that the gales may sigh through us too, as though the leafless trees, and fit us for the winter – as if we hoped so to borrow some pure and steadfast virtue, which will stead us in all seasons.
“There is a slumbering subterranean fire in nature which never goes out, and which no cold can chill. It finally melts the great snow, and in January or July is only buried under a thicker or thinner covering. In the coldest day it flows somewhere, and the snow melts around every tree. This field of winter rye, which sprouted late in the fall, and now speedily dissolves the snow, is where the fire is very thinly covered. We feel warmed by it. In the winter, warmth stands for all virtue, and we resort in thought to a trickling rill, with its bare stones shining in the sun, and to warm springs in the woods with as much eagerness as rabbits and robins.” (page 61)
“Nature confounds her summer distinctions at this season. The heavens seem to be nearer the earth. The elements are less reserved and distinct. Water turns to ice, rain to snow. The day is but a Scandinavian night. The winter is an arctic summer.” (page 63)
“In winter, nature is a cabinet of curiosities, full of dried specimens, in their natural order and position. The meadows and forests are a hortus siccus. The leaves and grasses stand perfectly pressed by the air without screw of gum, and the birds’ nests are not hung on an artificial twig, but where they builded them.” (page 71)
“Though winter is represented in the almanac as an old man, facing the wind and sleet, and drawing his cloak about him, we rather think of him as a merry woodchopper, and warm-blooded youth, as blithe as summer. The unexplored grandeur of the storm keeps up the spirits of the traveler. It does not trifle with us, but has a sweet earnestness. In winter we lead a more inward life. Our hearts are warm and cheery, like cottages under drifts, whose windows and doors are half concealed, but from whose chimneys the smoke cheerfully ascends. The imprisoning drifts increase the sense of comfort which the house affords, and in the coldest days we are content to sit over the hearth and see the sky through the chimney-top, enjoying the quiet and serene life that may be had in a warm corner by the chimney-side, or feeling our pulse by listening to the low of cattle in the street, or the sound of the flail in distant barns all the long afternoon.” (page 74)
The beauty, simplicity and hidden warmth of nature in winter rings through loud and clear. And yet I find that this year my connection with Thoreau is tinged with melancholy. I have changed and the world has during these past 11 years since I last blogged about his writings. In my youth and until quite recently, I saw nature as a great refuge and endless resource of inspiration, contemplation and wonder. He grasps and reveals a basic goodness in the natural world.
But that is changing. As for "society," it largely detracts from "health," most likely meaning "healing." The natural world is giving way to the Anthropocene and Thoreau's view of "society" has become so much the norm that I find nature being rooted out of human inspiration altogether. For good or ill humanity is mastering the natural earth, refashioning it in its image, demystifying it, draining it of wonder and, in fact, killing it physically as never before in human history.
So, now when I connect with Thoreau while sitting in my study in the coolness of winter, while I allow him to touch my heart and free my mind to ruminate upon the role of nature in my life, the warmth of his words is somewhat diminished. The inspiration has dwindled and not due to the inherent emptiness of experiencing it.
No, this is different. I feel troubled by Thoreau’s (and consequently my own) innocence and admiration. I now feel that he is rather simple-minded and somewhat arrogant to think that nature would always be this way. At Walden Pond, he was troubled by the sound of trains during his sleep. I am troubled by something far more pervasive, the changing of our entire Earth. Humans now control natural processes and we are warming the globe. And, since we could walk upright and use opposable thumbs, we have wiped out species and habitats almost beyond reckoning. We are, inherently it seems, wasteful to the extent of killing whole species of life.
It isn’t enough to be inspired by words or to listen to owls and hawks in remote areas. Nature is something that is dying out completely. But the part that troubles me most is not the diminishment of the natural world in physical space so much as in the human mind. We are turning inward to virtual worlds of hyper-connectivity. We are discovering far more wonder in technology than in nature. That is a scary thing to consider. Most of us can’t even recognize the change in the balance from nature to technology in the last three generations. It’s breath-taking.
Thoreau’s angst over trains in the night has become a life threatening force on this planet and, of far, humanity has not been able to address our habitual behavior. It is good to enjoy the trees and scurrying animals and fish in all the waters while we can. I love my woods. I love the places I hike to. I love to watch creek water run.
But the Sun sets hotter now than when Henry was alive. I have shockingly discovered that I can no longer unquestioningly connect with Thoreau’s confidence in the eternal qualities of nature. For the first time, I am distanced from his words by what I know is happening to this earth and know what motivates the people driving all this change. The Consumerist Techno-fetish may well be unstoppable.
And so now when I read Thoreau it is with a strange new anxious sadness. The past few times I’ve read him makes me sad as the Elves felt upon leaving Middle-earth at the dawn of the Fourth Age. In earlier Ages, there was a splendor over great swaths of Middle-earth. Yet, now they must "fade into the West." Fading as the pages of my paperback. Fading as who I was all the previous times I read Thoreau and innocently took the power of nature for granted, its future guaranteed by god, without realizing how powerless it is against humanity, but for its growing wrath.
Thoreau’s writing style really captures the wonder and majesty of nature. He finds the extraordinary in ordinary things like snow, leaves, fields, creeks and woodland animals. I read him and instantly connect with my own experience of being in my woods or hiking and camping elsewhere throughout the years of my life. I wrote about reading him back in February 2009. Typically, I read a few pages of him during the cold season. It seems fitting to me. Don’t ask me why.
The oldest parts of my library are mostly paperbacks from my high school and college days. My copy of The Portable Thoreau dates from 1977. The pages are yellowed and marked up different ways as I read it different times throughout my life. The cover is taped on. This year I read “A Natural History of Massachusetts,” “A Winter Walk,” and a couple of essays from The Maine Woods. Here is a sampling of quotes that resonate with me, some of which I entered here over a decade ago.
“In society you will not find health, but in nature. Unless our feet at least stood in the midst of nature, all our faces would be pale and livid. Society is always diseased and the best is the most so. There is no scent in it so wholesome as that of the pines, nor the fragrance so penetrating and restorative as the life-everlasting in high pastures. I would keep some book of natural history always by me as a sort of elixir, the reading of which should restore the tone of the system.” (page 33)
“In the winter, I stop short in the path to admire how the trees grow up without forethought, regardless of the time and circumstances. They do not wait as man does, but now is the golden age of the sapling. Earth, air, sun and rain are occasion enough: they were no better in primeval centuries. The ‘winter of their discontent’ never comes. Witness the buds of the native poplar standing gaily out to the frost on the sides of its bare switches. They express a naked confidence.” (page 51)
“A lurid brazen light in the east proclaims the approach of day, while the western landscape is dim and spectral still, and clothed in a somber Tartarean light, like the shadowy realms. They are Infernal sounds only that you hear – the crowing of cocks, the barking of dogs, the chopping of wood, the lowing of kine, all seem to come from Plato’s barnyard and beyond the Styx – not for any melancholy they suggest, but their twilight bustle is too solemn and mysterious for earth. The recent tracks of the fox or otter, in the yard, remind us that each hour of the night is crowded with events, and the primeval nature is still working and making tacks in the snow.” (page 58)
“The wonderful purity of nature at this season is a most pleasing fact. Every decayed stump and moss-grown stone and rail, and the dead leaves of autumn, are concealed by a clean napkin of snow. In the bare fields and tinkering woods, see what virtue survives. In the coldest and bleakest places, the warmest charities still maintain a foothold. A cold and searching wind drives away all contagion, and nothing can withstand it but what has a virtue in it, and accordingly, whatever we meet with in cold and leak places, as the tops of mountains, we respect for a sort of sturdy innocence, a Puritan toughness. All things beside seem to be called in for shelter, and what stays out must be part of the original frame of the universe, and of such valor as God himself. It is invigorating to breathe the cleansed air. Its greater fineness and purity are visible to the eye, and we would fain stay out long and late, that the gales may sigh through us too, as though the leafless trees, and fit us for the winter – as if we hoped so to borrow some pure and steadfast virtue, which will stead us in all seasons.
“There is a slumbering subterranean fire in nature which never goes out, and which no cold can chill. It finally melts the great snow, and in January or July is only buried under a thicker or thinner covering. In the coldest day it flows somewhere, and the snow melts around every tree. This field of winter rye, which sprouted late in the fall, and now speedily dissolves the snow, is where the fire is very thinly covered. We feel warmed by it. In the winter, warmth stands for all virtue, and we resort in thought to a trickling rill, with its bare stones shining in the sun, and to warm springs in the woods with as much eagerness as rabbits and robins.” (page 61)
“Nature confounds her summer distinctions at this season. The heavens seem to be nearer the earth. The elements are less reserved and distinct. Water turns to ice, rain to snow. The day is but a Scandinavian night. The winter is an arctic summer.” (page 63)
“In winter, nature is a cabinet of curiosities, full of dried specimens, in their natural order and position. The meadows and forests are a hortus siccus. The leaves and grasses stand perfectly pressed by the air without screw of gum, and the birds’ nests are not hung on an artificial twig, but where they builded them.” (page 71)
“Though winter is represented in the almanac as an old man, facing the wind and sleet, and drawing his cloak about him, we rather think of him as a merry woodchopper, and warm-blooded youth, as blithe as summer. The unexplored grandeur of the storm keeps up the spirits of the traveler. It does not trifle with us, but has a sweet earnestness. In winter we lead a more inward life. Our hearts are warm and cheery, like cottages under drifts, whose windows and doors are half concealed, but from whose chimneys the smoke cheerfully ascends. The imprisoning drifts increase the sense of comfort which the house affords, and in the coldest days we are content to sit over the hearth and see the sky through the chimney-top, enjoying the quiet and serene life that may be had in a warm corner by the chimney-side, or feeling our pulse by listening to the low of cattle in the street, or the sound of the flail in distant barns all the long afternoon.” (page 74)
The beauty, simplicity and hidden warmth of nature in winter rings through loud and clear. And yet I find that this year my connection with Thoreau is tinged with melancholy. I have changed and the world has during these past 11 years since I last blogged about his writings. In my youth and until quite recently, I saw nature as a great refuge and endless resource of inspiration, contemplation and wonder. He grasps and reveals a basic goodness in the natural world.
But that is changing. As for "society," it largely detracts from "health," most likely meaning "healing." The natural world is giving way to the Anthropocene and Thoreau's view of "society" has become so much the norm that I find nature being rooted out of human inspiration altogether. For good or ill humanity is mastering the natural earth, refashioning it in its image, demystifying it, draining it of wonder and, in fact, killing it physically as never before in human history.
So, now when I connect with Thoreau while sitting in my study in the coolness of winter, while I allow him to touch my heart and free my mind to ruminate upon the role of nature in my life, the warmth of his words is somewhat diminished. The inspiration has dwindled and not due to the inherent emptiness of experiencing it.
No, this is different. I feel troubled by Thoreau’s (and consequently my own) innocence and admiration. I now feel that he is rather simple-minded and somewhat arrogant to think that nature would always be this way. At Walden Pond, he was troubled by the sound of trains during his sleep. I am troubled by something far more pervasive, the changing of our entire Earth. Humans now control natural processes and we are warming the globe. And, since we could walk upright and use opposable thumbs, we have wiped out species and habitats almost beyond reckoning. We are, inherently it seems, wasteful to the extent of killing whole species of life.
It isn’t enough to be inspired by words or to listen to owls and hawks in remote areas. Nature is something that is dying out completely. But the part that troubles me most is not the diminishment of the natural world in physical space so much as in the human mind. We are turning inward to virtual worlds of hyper-connectivity. We are discovering far more wonder in technology than in nature. That is a scary thing to consider. Most of us can’t even recognize the change in the balance from nature to technology in the last three generations. It’s breath-taking.
Thoreau’s angst over trains in the night has become a life threatening force on this planet and, of far, humanity has not been able to address our habitual behavior. It is good to enjoy the trees and scurrying animals and fish in all the waters while we can. I love my woods. I love the places I hike to. I love to watch creek water run.
But the Sun sets hotter now than when Henry was alive. I have shockingly discovered that I can no longer unquestioningly connect with Thoreau’s confidence in the eternal qualities of nature. For the first time, I am distanced from his words by what I know is happening to this earth and know what motivates the people driving all this change. The Consumerist Techno-fetish may well be unstoppable.
And so now when I read Thoreau it is with a strange new anxious sadness. The past few times I’ve read him makes me sad as the Elves felt upon leaving Middle-earth at the dawn of the Fourth Age. In earlier Ages, there was a splendor over great swaths of Middle-earth. Yet, now they must "fade into the West." Fading as the pages of my paperback. Fading as who I was all the previous times I read Thoreau and innocently took the power of nature for granted, its future guaranteed by god, without realizing how powerless it is against humanity, but for its growing wrath.
Comments
(By the way, it is not related to genetics or some secret-exercise and EVERYTHING about "HOW" they eat.)
P.S, What I said is "HOW", not "what"...
Tap on this link to determine if this quick test can help you release your real weight loss possibility