Thoreau's Journal: 28-Aug-1851

The poet is a man who lives at last by watching his moods. An old poet comes at last to watch his moods as narrowly as a cat does a mouse.

I omit the usual—the hurricanes and earthquakes—and describe the common. This has the greatest charm and is the true theme of poetry. You may have the extraordinary for your province, if you will let me have the ordinary. Give me the obscure life, the cottage of the poor and humble, the workdays of the world, the barren fields, the smallest share of all things but poetic perception. Give me but the eyes to see the things which you possess.


Jack Saturday said...

Greg,I'm lucky to have found your Thoreau blog a few weeks ago, because instead of waiting for a daily entry, I got to feast on a month's worth at a time on summer evenings, making a wonderful classic blue-sky summer on Vancouver Island even more memorable. Damn it, I've come to the end of this beautiful forest path.

Can't thank you enough. You have enriched my summer. I'll look at your other offers as time goes on. Don't just now know what kind of job you do for money, but as far as I'm concerned you've earned some great spiritual reward for the labor you put into this project. I am as inspired by your labor of love as by the heaps of jewels I have taken home with me "without a wheelbarrow" from Henry. I'm going to ask the gods and Henry himself to release you from anything that keeps you from your own Thoreauvian longing for freedom and nature.

Here's a large version of your pic of Henry. I read that he was struggling with tuberculosis here. Look at his eyes!


Again, thanks for this humble and wonderful work.


Very best to you, Greg.


Greg said...

Jack, thank you very much for your kind words today (and for your plea to the gods on my behalf) as well as all the comments you've made the past month. I have read them all, and have been enjoying your trek thru Henry's days.