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07 - Walden - Henry David Thoreau · Logic Library

• Chapter two, Part two. I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not when I came to die discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life. Living is so dear, Nor did I wish to practice resignation unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and spartan like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swathe and shave close, to drive life into a corner and reduce it to its lowest terms. And if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it and publish its meanness to the world, Or if it were sublime, to know it by experience and be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion. For most men, it appears to me, are in a strange uncertainty about it, whether it is of the devil or of God, and have somewhat hastily concluded that it is the chief end of man. Here to quote, glorify God and enjoy him forever and quote Still we live meanly like ants, though the fable tells us that we were long ago changed into men like pigmies. We fight with cranes, his error upon error, and clout upon clout, And our best virtue has for its occasion a superfluous and evitable wretchedness. Our life is frittered away by detail. An honest man has hardly need to count more than his ten fingers, or in extreme cases, he may add his ten toes and lump the rest. Simplicity, simplicity, simplicity. I say, let your affairs be as two or three, and not a hundred or a thousand instead of a million, count half a dozen, and keep your accounts on your thumb nail. In the midst of this chopping sea of civilized life, such are the clouds and storms and quicksands and thousand and one items to be allowed for that a man has to live if he would not founder and go to the bottom, and not make his port at all by dead reckoning. And he must be a great calculator, indeed, who succeeds Simplify, simplify, instead of three meals, a day, if it be necessary, eat but one instead of a hundred dishes five, and reduce other things in proportion. Our life is like a German confederacy made up of petty states, with its boundary forever fluctuating, so that even a German cannot tell you how it is bounded at any moment. The nation itself, with all its so called internal improvements, which by the way, are all external and superficial, is just such an unwieldy and overgrown establishment, cluttered with furniture and tripped up by its own traps, ruined by luxury and heedless expense, by want of calculation and a worthy aim, as a million households in the land, and the only cure for it, as for them, is in rigid economy, a stern and more then spartan simplicity of life and elevation of purpose. It lives too fast. Men think that it is essential that the nation have commerce and export ice, and talk through a telegraph, and ride thirty miles an hour without a doubt whether they do or not. But whether we should live like baboons or like men is a little uncertain. If we do not get out sleepers and forge rails and devote days and nights to the work, but go to tinkering upon our lives to improve them. Who will build railroads? And if railroads are not built, how shall we get to heaven in season? But if we stay at home and mind our business, who will want railroads? We do not ride on the railroad? It rides upon us. Did you ever think what those sleepers are that underlie the railroad? Each one is a man, an irishman, or a Yankee man. The rails are laid on them, and they are covered with sand, and the cars run smoothly over for them. They are sound sleepers, I assure you. And every few years a new lot is laid down and run over, so that if some have the pleasure of riding on a rail, others have the misfortune to be ridden upon. And when they run over a man that is walking in his sleep, a supernumerary sleeper in the wrong position, and wake him up, they suddenly stop the cars and make a hue and cry about it, as if this were an exception. I am glad to know that it takes a gang of men for every five miles to keep the sleepers down and level in their beds, as it is, for this is a sign that they may sometime get up again. Why should we live with such hurry and waste of life? We are determined to be starved before we are hungry. Men say that a stitch in time saves nine, and so they take a thousand stitches to day to save nine tomorrow. As for work, we haven't any of any consequence. We have the Saint Vitus dance, and cannot possibly keep our heads still if I should only give a few pulls at the parish bell rope as for a fire, that is, without setting the bell. There is hardly a man on his farm in the outskirts of Concord, notwithstanding that press of engagements, which was his excuse so many times this morning, nor a boy nor a woman, I might almost say, but would forsake all and follow that sound, not mainly to save property from the flames, but if we will confess the truth, much more to see it burn, since burne it must, and we be it known, did not set it on fire, or to see it put out and have a hand in it, if that is done as handsomely, Yes, even if it were the parish church itself. Hardly a man takes a half hour's nap after dinner. But when he wakes, he holds up his head and asks, what's the news, as if the rest of mankind had stood his sentinels. Some give directions to be waked every half hour, doubtless for no other purpose, and then to pay for it. They tell what they have dreamed after a night's sleep. The news is as indispensable as the breakfast pray. Tell me anything new that has happened to a man anywhere on this globe, and he reads it over his coffee and rolls that a man has had his eyes gouged out this morning on the watchtow river, never dreaming the while that he lives in the dark, unfathomed mammoth cave of this world, and has but the rudiment of an eye himself. For my part, I could easily do without the post office. I think that there are very few important communications made through it. To speak critically, I never received more than one or two letters in my life. I wrote this some years ago, that were worth the postage. The penny post is commonly an institution through which you seriously offer a man that penny for his thoughts, which is so often safely offered in jest. And I am sure that I never read any memorable news in a newspaper. If we read of one man robbed or murdered or killed by accident, or one house burned, or one vessel wrecked, or one steamboat blown up, or one cow run over on the Western railroad, or one mad dog killed, or one lot of grasshoppers in the winter, we never need read of another. One is enough. If you are acquainted with the principle, what do you care for a myriad instances and applications to a philosopher? All news, as it is called, is gossip, and they who edit and read it are old women over their tea. Yet not a few are greedy after this gossip. There was such a rush, as I hear the other day at one of the offices, to learn the foreign news by the last arrival, that several large squares of plate glass belonging to the establishment were broken by the pressure, news which I seriously think a ready wit might write a twelve month or twelve years beforehand with sufficient accuracy. As for Spain, for instance, if you know how to throw in Don Carlos and the Infanta, and Don Pedro and Seville and Granada from time to time in the right proportions. They may have changed the names a little since I saw the papers, and serve up a bull fight when other entertainments fail. It will be true to the letter and give us as good an idea of the exact state or ruin of things in Spain as the most succinct and lucid reports under this head in the newspapers. And as for England, almost the last significant scrap of news from that quarter was the revolution of sixteen forty nine. And if you have learned the history of her crops for an average year, you never need attend to that thing again, unless your speculations are of a merely pecuniary character. If one may judge who rarely looks into the newspapers, nothing new does ever happen in foreign parts. A French revolution not accepted? What news? How much more important to know what that is which was never old? Quote k You he U, great dignitary of the state of Way, sent a man to Gong Siou to know his news. Gong Sieu caused the messenger to be seated near him and questioned him in these terms, what is your master doing? The messenger answered, with respect. My master desires to diminish the number of his faults, but he cannot come to the end of them. The messenger being gone, the philosopher remarked, what a worthy messenger, What a worthy messenger. The preacher instead of vexing the ears of drowsy farmers on their day of rest at the end of the week, for Sunday is the fit conclusion of an ill spent week, and not the fresh and brave beginning of a new one. With this one other draggle tale of a sermon should shout with thundering voice, pause, a vast why so, seeming fast but deadly slow. Shams and delusions are esteemed for soundest truths, while reality is fabulous. If men would steadily observe realityies only, and not allow themselves to be deluded, life, to compare it with such things as we know, would be like a fairy tale, and the Arabian night's entertainments. If we respected only what is inevitable and has a right to be, music and poetry would resound along the streets. When we are unhurried and wise, we perceive that only great and worthy things have any permanent and absolute existence, that petty fears and petty pleasures are but the shadow of the reality. This is always exhilarating and sublime. By closing the eyes and slumbering and consenting to be deceived by shows, men establish and confirm their daily life of routine and habit everywhere, which still is built on purely illusory foundations. Children who play life discern its true law and relations more clearly than men who fail to live it worthily, but who think that they are wiser by experience, that is, by failure. I have read in a Hindu book that quote There was a king's son who, being expelled in infancy from his native city, was brought up by a forester, and, growing up to maturity in that state, imagined himself to belong to the barbarous race with which he lived. One of his father's ministers, having discovered him, revealed to him what he was, and the misconception of his character was removed, and he knew himself to be a prince so soul end quote continues the Hindu philosopher quote from the circumstances in which it is placed, mistakes its own character until the truth is revealed to it by some holy teacher and then it knows itself to be Brahmin end quote. I perceive that we inhabitants of New England live this mean life that we do. Because our vision does not penetrate the surface of things. We think that that is which appears to be. If a man should walk through this town and see only the reality where think you would the mill dam go to. If he should give us an account of the realities he beheld there, we should not recognize the place in his description. Look at a meeting house, or a court house, or a jail, or a shop, or a dwelling house, and say what that thing really is before a true gaze, and they would all go to pieces in your account of them. Men esteem truth remote in the outskirts of the system, behind the farthest star, before Adam and after the last man. In eternity, there is indeed something true and sublime. But all these times and places and occasions are now and here. God himself culminates in the present moment, and will never be more divine in the lapse of all the ages. And we are enabled to apprehend at all what is sublime and noble only by the perpetual instilling and wrenching of the reality that surrounds us. The universe constantly and obediently answers to our conceptions, whether we travel fast or slow, the track is laid for us. Let us spend our life lives in conceiving. Then the poet or the artist never yet had so fair and noble a design, but some of his posterity at least could accomplish it. Let us spend one day as deliberately as nature, and not be thrown off the track by every nutshell in Mosquito's wing that falls on the rails. Let us rise early and fast, or break fast gently and without perturbation. Let company come, and let company go. Let the bells ring and the children cry, determined to make a day of it. Why should we knock under and go with the stream? Let us not be upset and overwhelmed in that terrible rapid and whirlpool called a dinner situated in the meridian shallows weather this danger, and you are safe for the rest of the way is down hill with unrelaxed nerves, with mourning vigor, sail by it looking another way, tied to the mast like ulysses. If the engine whistles, let it whistle till it is hoarse for its pains. If the bell rings, why should we run? We will consider what kind of music they are like. Let us sat ourselves and work and wedge our feet downward through the mud and slush of opinion and prejudice and tradition and delusion and appearance, that alluvion which covers the globe, through Paris and London, through New York and Boston and concord, through church and state, through poetry and philosophy and religion, till we come to a hard bottom and rocks in place which we can call reality, and say this is and no mistake, and then begin having a plan. Depuis below freshet and frost and fire, a place where you might found a wall or a state, or set a lamp post safely, or perhaps a gauge, not a nilometer, but a real low meter that future ages might know how deep a freshet of shams and appearances had gathered from time to time. If you stand right fronting and face to face to a fact, you will see the sun glimmer on both its surfaces as if it were a scimeter, and feel its sweet edge dividing you through the heart and marrow, and so you will happily conclude your mortal career. Be it life or death, we crave only reality. If we are really dying, let us hear the rattle in our throats and feel cold in the extremities. If we are alive, let us go about our business. Time is but the stream. I go a fishing in. I drink at it. But while I drink, I see the sandy bottom and detect how shallow it is. Its thin current slides away, but eternity remains. I would drink deeper. Fish in the sky, whose bottom is pebbly with stars. I cannot count one. I know not the first letter of the alphabet. I have always been regretting that I was not as wise as the day I was born. The intellect is a cleaver. It discerns and rifts its way into the secret of things. I do not wish to be any more busy with my hands than is necessary. My head is hands and feet. I feel all my best faculties concentrated in it. My instinct tells me that my head is an organ for burrowing, as some creatures use their snout and fore paws, And with it I would mine and burrow my way through these hills. I think that the richest vein is somewhere hereabouts. So by the divining rod and thin rising vapors, I judge, and here I will begin to mine. End of LibriVox, Part two, end of Chapter two