The Thoreau
Institute at Walden Woods Library
Thoreau's Life &
Writings: Correspondence
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HDT to H.G.O.
Blake
Concord, 27 March 1848
I am glad to hear that any words of mine, though spoken so log ago
that I can hardly claim identity with their author, have reached
you. It gives me pleasure, because I have therefore reason to
suppose that I have uttered what concerns men, and that it is not in
vain than man speaks to man. This is the value of literature. Yet
those days are so distant, in every sense, that I have had to look
at that page again, to learn what was the tenor of my thoughts then.
I should value that article, however, if only because it was the
occasion of your letter.
I do believe that the outward and the
inward life correspond; that if any should succeed to live a higher
life, others would not know of it; that difference and distance are
one. To set about living a true life is to go a journey to a distant
country, gradually to find ourselves surrounded by new scenes and
men; and as long as the old are around me, I know that I am not in
any true sense living a new or a better life. The outward is only
the outside of that which is within. Men are not concealed under
habits, but are revealed by them; they are their true clothes. I
care not how curious a reason they may give for their abiding by
them. Circumstances are not rigid and unyielding, but our habits are
rigid. We are apt to speak vaguely sometimes, as if a divine life
were to be grafted on to or built over this present as a suitable
foundation. This might do if we could so build over our old life as
to exclude from it all the warmth of our affection, and addle it, as
the thrush builds over the cuckoo’s egg, and lays her won atop,
and hatches that only; but the fact is, we—so thin is the
partition—hatch them both, and the cuckoo’s always by a day
first, and that young bird crowds the young thrushes out of the
nest. No. Destroy the cuckoo’s egg, or build a new nest.
Change is
change. No new life occupies the old bodies;—they decay. It is
born, and grows, and flourishes. Men very pathetically inform the
old, accept and wear it. Why put up with the almshouse when you may
go to heaven? It is embalming,—no more. Let alone your ointments
and your linen swathes, and go into an infant’s body. You see in
the catacombs of Egypt the result of that experiment,—that is the
end of it.
I do believe
in simplicity. It is astonishing as well as sad, how many trivial
affairs even the wisest thinks he must attend to in a day; how
singular an affair he thinks he must omit. When the mathematician
would solve a difficult problem, he first frees the equation of all
incumbrances, and reduces it to its simplest terms. So simplify the
problem of life, distinguish the necessary and the real. Probe the
earth to see where your main roots run. I would stand upon facts.
Why not see,—use our eyes? Do men know nothing? I know many men
who, in common things, are not to be deceived; who trust no
moonshine; who count their money correctly, and know how to invest
it; who are said to be prudent and knowing, who yet will stand at a
desk the greater part of their lives, as cashiers in banks, and
glimmer and rust and finally go out there. If they know anything,
what under the sun do they do that for? Do they know what bread is?
Or what it is for? Do they know what life is? If they knew
something, the places which know them now would know them no more
forever.
This, our
respectable daily life, on which the man of common sense, the
Englishman of the world, stands so squarely, and on which our
institutions are founded, is in fact the veriest illusion, and will
vanish life the baseless fabric of a vision; but that faint glimmer
of reality which sometimes illuminates the darkness of daylight for
all men, reveals something more solid and enduring than adamant,
which is in fact the cornerstone of the world.
Men cannot
conceive of a state of things so fair that it cannot be realized.
Can any man honestly consult his experience and say that it is so?
Have we any facts to appeal to when we say that our dreams are
premature? Did you ever hear of a man who had striven all his life
faithfully and singly toward an object and in no measure obtained
it? If a man constantly aspires, is he not elevated? Did ever a man
try heroism, magnanimity, truth, sincerity, and find that there was
no advantage in them? that it was a vain endeavor? Of course we do
not expect that our paradise will be a garden. We know not what we
ask. To look at literature; — how many fine thoughts had every man
had! How few fine thoughts are expressed! Yet we never have a
fantasy so subtle and ethereal, but that talent merely, with more
resolution and faithful persistency, after a thousand failures,
might fix and engrave it in distinct an enduring words, and we
should see that our dreams are the solidest facts that we know. But
I speak not of dreams.
What can be
expressed in words can be expressed in life.
My actual life
is a fact, in view of which I have no occasion to congratulate
myself; but for my faith and aspiration I have respect. It is from
these that I speak. Every man’s position is in fact too simple to
be described. I have sworn no oath. I have no designs on society, or
nature, or God. I am simply what I am, or I begin to be that. I live
in the present. I only remember the past, and anticipate the future.
I love to live. I love reform better than its modes. There is no
history of how bad became better. I believe something, and there is
nothing else but that. I know that I am. I know that another is who
knows more than I, who takes interest in me, whose creature, and yet
whose kindred, in one sense, am I. I know that the enterprise
is worthy. I know that things work well. I have heard no bad news.
As for
positions, combinations, and details,—what are they? In clear
weather, when we look into the heavens, what do we see but the sky
and the sun?
If you would
convince a man that he does wrong, do right. But do not care
to convince him. Men will believe what they see. Let them see.
Pursue, keep
up with, circle round and round your life, as a dog does his
master’s chaise. Do what you love. Know your own bone; gnaw
at it, bury it, unearth it, and gnaw it still. Do not be too
moral. You may cheat yourself out of much life so. Aim above
morality. Be not simply good; be good for something. All
fables, indeed, have their morals; but the innocent enjoy the story.
Let nothing come between you and the light. Respect men and brothers
only. When you travel to the Celestial City, carry no letter of
introduction. When you knock, ask to see God,—none of the
servants. In what concerns you much, do not think that you have
companions; know that you are alone in the world.
Thus I write
at random. I need to see you, and I trust I shall, to correct my
mistakes. Perhaps you have some oracles for me.
Henry Thoreau.
A
Note on the Text:
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Source:
Familiar Letters edited by F.B. Sanborn [The Writings of
Henry David Thoreau (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1906) p. 160-164..
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