I am not alone if I stand by myself.
A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, p. 184
Happy the man who is furnished with all the advantages to relish solitude; he is never alone, and yet may be retired in the midst of a crowd; he holds sweet converse with the sages of antiquity, and gathers wisdom from their discourse—he enjoys the fruit of their labors—their knowledge is his knowledge—their wisdom his inheritance.
From a college essay on the topic “Speak of the privileges and pleasures of a literary man,” September 18, 1835, in Early Essays and Miscellanies, p. 20
It would be better if there were but one inhabitant to a square mile, as where I live.
Walden, p. 136
Men frequently say to me, “I should think you would feel lonesome down there, and want to be nearer to folks, rainy and snowy days and nights especially.” I am tempted to reply to such,—This whole earth which we inhabit is but a point in space. How far apart, think you, dwell the two most distant inhabitants of yonder star, the breadth of whose disk cannot be appreciated by our instruments? Why should I feel lonely? is not our planet in the Milky Way?
Walden, p. 133
How alone must our life be lived—We dwell on the sea-shore and none between us and the sea. Men are my merry companions—my fellow-pilgrims—who beguile the way, but leave me at the first turn in the road—for none are travelling one road so far as myself.
Written March 13, 1841, in his Journal, vol. 1, p. 288
I have a great deal of company in my house; especially in the morning, when nobody calls. Let me suggest a few comparisons, that some one may convey an idea of my situation. I am no more lonely than the loon in the pond that laughs so loud, or than Walden Pond itself. What company has that lonely lake, I pray? And yet it has not the blue devils, but the blue angels in it, in the azure tint of its waters. The sun is alone, except in thick weather, when there sometimes appear to be two, but one is a mock sun. God is alone,—but the devil, he is far from being alone; he sees a great deal of company; he is legion. I am no more lonely than a single mullein or dandelion in a pasture, or a bean leaf, or a sorrel, or a horse-fly, or a humble-bee. I am no more lonely than the Mill Brook, or a weathercock, or the northstar, or the south wind, or an April shower, or a January thaw, or the first spider in a new house.
Walden, p. 137
I find it wholesome to be alone the greater part of the time. To be in company, even with the best, is soon wearisome and dissipating. I love to be alone. I never found the companion that was so companionable as solitude. We are for the most part more lonely when we go abroad among men than when we stay in our chambers. A man thinking or working is always alone, let him be where he will. Solitude is not measured by the miles of space that intervene between a man and his fellows.
walden, p. 135
What sort of space is that which separates a man from his fellows and makes him solitary? I have found that no exertion of the legs can bring two minds much nearer to one another. What do we want most to dwell near to? Not to many men surely, the depot, the post-office, the bar-room, the meeting-house, the schoolhouse, the grocery, Beacon Hill, or the Five Points, where men most congregate, but to the perennial source of our life, whence in all our experience we have found that to issue, as the willow stands near the water and sends out its roots in that direction. This will vary with different natures, but this is the place where a wise man will dig his cellar.
Walden, p. 133
I was describing the other day my success in solitary and distant woodland walking outside the town. I do not go there to get my dinner, but to get that sustenance which dinners only preserve me to enjoy, without which dinners are a vain repetition.
Written January 11, 1857, in his Journal, vol. IX, p. 215
I thrive best on solitude. If I have had a companion only one day in a week, unless it were one or two I could name, I find that the value of the week to me has been seriously affected. It dissipates my days, and oft en it takes me another week to get over it.
Written December 28, 1856, in his Journal, vol. IX, p. 200
I do not know if I am singular when I say that I believe there is no man with whom I can associate who will not, comparatively speaking, spoil my afternoon. That society or encounter may at last yield a fruit which I am not aware of, but I cannot help suspecting that I should have spent those hours more profitably alone.
Written November 25, 1857, in his Journal, vol. X, p. 204
You think that I am impoverishing myself by withdrawing from men, but in my solitude I have woven for myself a silken web or chrysalis, and, nymph-like, shall ere long burst forth a more perfect creature, fitted for a higher society.
Written February 8, 1857, in his Journal, vol. IX, p. 246
By my intimacy with nature I find myself withdrawn from man. My interest in the sun & the moon, in the morning & the evening compels me to solitude.
Written July 26, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 5, pp. 250–251
Ah! I need solitude. I have come forth to this hill at sunset to see the forms of the mountains in the horizon—to behold & commune with something grander than man. Their mere distance & unprofanedness is an infinite encouragement. It is with an infinite yearning & aspiration that I seek solitude—more & more resolved & strong—but with a certain genial weakness that I seek society ever.
Written August 14, 1854, in his Journal, vol. 8, pp. 267–268
Mrs. A. takes on dolefully on account of the solitude in which she lives, but she gets little consolation. Mrs. B. says she envies her that retirement. Mrs. A. is aware that she does, and says it is as if a thirsty man should envy another the river in which he is drowning. So goes the world. It is either this extreme or that. Of solitude one gets too much and another not enough.
Written March 11, 1859, in his Journal, vol. XII, p. 38
It is surprising how much room there is in nature, if a man will follow his proper path. In these broad fields—in these extensive woods—on this stretching river I never meet a walker—passing behind the farmhouses I see no man out.
Written January 26, 1853, in his Journal, vol. 5, p. 454
I have found myself as well off when I have fallen into a quagmire as in an arm chair in the most hospitable house. The prospect was pretty much the same. Without anxiety let us wander on admiring whatever beauty the woods exhibit.
Written after July 29, 1850, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 98
Even talent is respectable only when it indicates a depth of character unfathomed. Surely, it is better that our wisdom appear in the constant success of our spirits, than in our business or the maxims which fall from our lips merely.
“Sir Walter Raleigh” in Early Essays and Miscellanies, p. 216
Every man’s success is in proportion to his average ability.
Written between 1842 and 1844, in his Journal, vol. 2, p. 61
Undoubtedly, in the most brilliant successes, the first rank is always sacrificed.
“Paradise (to be) Regained” in Reform Papers, p. 23
Regard not your past failures nor successes. All the past is equally a failure & a success. It is a success in as much as it offers you the present opportunity.
Written after July 29, 1850, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 95
Those slight labors which afford me a livelihood, and by which it is allowed that I am to some extent serviceable to my contemporaries, are as yet commonly a pleasure to me, and I am not oft en reminded that they are a necessity. So far I am successful.
“Life without Principle” in Reform Papers, p. 160
I foresee, that, if my wants should be much increased, the labor required to supply them would become a drudgery. If I should sell both my forenoons and afternoons to society, as most appear to do, I am sure, that, for me, there would be nothing left worth living for. I trust that I shall never thus sell my birthright for a mess of pottage.
“Life without Principle” in Reform Papers, p. 160
Alas! this is the crying sin of the age, this want of faith in the prevalence of a man. Nothing can be effected but by one man. He who wants help wants everything. True, this is the condition of our weakness, but it can never be the means of our recovery. We must first succeed alone, that we may enjoy our success together.
“Paradise (to be) Regained” in Reform Papers, p. 42
In the long run men hit only what they aim at. Therefore, though they should fail immediately, they had better aim at something high.
Walden, p. 27
If one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with success unexpected in common hours. He will put some things behind, will pass an invisible boundary; new, universal, and more liberal laws will begin to establish themselves around and within him; or the old laws be expanded, and interpreted in his favor in a more liberal sense, and he will live with the license of a higher order of beings.
Walden, pp. 323–324
Men were born to succeed, not to fail.
Written March 21, 1853, in his Journal, vol. 6, p. 23
A living dog is better than a dead lion. Shall a man go and hang himself because he belongs to the race of pygmies, and not be the biggest pygmy that he can? Let every one mind his own business, and endeavor to be what he was made.
Walden, pp. 325–326
Nothing memorable was ever accomplished in a prosaic mood.
Cape Cod, p. 95
If the day and the night are such that you greet them with joy, and life emits a fragrance like flowers and sweet-scented herbs, is more elastic, more starry, more immortal,—that is your success.
Walden, p. 216
It has found an audience of excellent character, and quite numerous, some 2000 copies having been dispersed. I should consider it a greater success to interest one wise and earnest soul, than a million unwise & frivolous.
To Calvin Greene, on the reception of Walden, February 10, 1856, in The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, p. 407
If a man has spent all his days about some business, by which he has merely got to be rich, as it is called, i.e., has got much money, many houses and barns and woodlots, then his life has been a failure, I think; but if he has been trying to better his condition in a higher sense than this, has been trying to invent something, to be somebody,—i.e., to invent and get a patent for himself,—so that all may see his originality, though he should never get above board,—and great inventors, you know, commonly die poor,—I shall think him comparatively successful.
Written November 29, 1860, in his Journal, vol. XIV, pp. 281–282
I never triumph so as when I have the least success in my neighbor’s eyes.
To H.G.O. Blake, December 31, 1856, in The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, p. 461
Your success will be in proportion to your devotion to ideas.
To H.G.O. Blake, May 20, 1860, in The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, p. 579
Do not despair of life. You have no doubt force enough to overcome your obstacles.
Written December 27, 1857, in his Journal, vol. X, p. 228
A retreat is rarely well conducted; if it is, then it is an orderly advance in the face of circumstances.
“Natural History of Massachusetts” in Excursions, pp. 6–7
A man is not his hope, nor his despair, nor yet his past deed.
A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, p. 129
Men will lie on their backs, talking about the fall of man, and never make an effort to get up.
“Life without Principle” in Reform Papers, p. 161
I always see those of whom I have heard well with a slight disappointment.
To Ralph Waldo Emerson, June 8, 1843, in The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, p. 111
If there is any one with whom we have a quarrel is it most likely that that one makes some just demand on us which we disappoint.
Written November 22, 1853, in his Journal, vol. 7, p. 171
We too have our thaws. They come to our January moods when our ice cracks & our sluices break loose.
Written January 31, 1854, in his Journal, vol. 7, p. 259
We are more of the earth—farther from heaven these days. We live in a grosser element—are getting deeper into the mists of earth. Even the birds sing with less vigor & vivacity. The season of hope & promise is past—already the season of small fruits has arrived.… We are a little saddened, because we begin to see the interval between our hopes & their fulfillment. The prospect of the heavens is taken away and we are presented only with a few small berries.
Written June 17, 1854, in his Journal, vol. 8, pp. 204–205
Methinks that these prosers with their saws & their laws do not know how glad a man can be. What wisdom—what warning can prevail against gladness? There is no law so strong which a little gladness may not transgress.
Written January 3, 1853, in his Journal, vol. 5, p. 422
When we have experienced many disappointments, such as the loss of friends, the notes of birds cease to affect us as they did.
Written February 5, 1859, two days after his father died, in his Journal, vol. XI, p. 439
There was a time when the beauty & the music were all within & I sat & listened to my thoughts & there was a song in them. I sat for hours on rocks and wrestled with the melody which possessed me. I sat and listened by the hour to a positive though faint & distant music not sung by any bird nor vibrating any earthly harp. When you walked with a joy which knew not its own origin. When you were an organ of which the world was but one poor broken pipe. I lay long on the rocks foundered like a harp on the sea-shore that knows not how it is dealt with.
Written May 23, 1854, in his Journal, vol. 8, p. 147
To live like a philosopher, is to live, not foolishly, like other men, but wisely, and according to universal laws. In this, which was the ancient sense, we think there has been no philosopher in modern times. The wisest and most practical men of recent history, to whom this epithet has been hastily applied, have lived comparatively meagre lives, of conformity and tradition, such as their fathers transmitted to them. But a man may live in what style he can. Between earth and heaven, there is room for all kinds. If he take counsel of fear and prudence, he has already failed.
“Thomas Carlyle and His Works” in Early Essays and Miscellanies, p. 256
Men die of fright & live of confidence.
Written after July 29, 1850, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 96
It is best that reason should govern us and not these blind intimations in which we exalt our fears into a genius.
Written August 8, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 360
What danger is there if you don’t think of any?
Walden, p. 153
It is true, nothing could originally demand our respect, which was not, at the same time, capable, in a greater or less degree, of exciting our fear, but this does not prove fear to be the source of that respect.
From a college essay, “Sublimity,” March 31, 1837, in Early Essays and Miscellanies, p. 97
I am required, it is true, to respect the feelings of my neighbor within the limits of his own estate, but the fear of displeasing the world ought not, in the least, to influence my actions; were it otherwise the principal avenue to reform would be closed.
From a college essay, “Moral Excellence,” May 19, 1837, in Early Essays and Miscellanies, p. 106
Even the prophets and redeemers have rather consoled the fears than satisfied the free demands and hopes of man!
“Reform and the Reformers” in Reform Papers, p. 192
Our foes are in our midst and all about us. There is hardly a house but is divided against itself, for our foe is the all but universal woodenness of both head and heart, the want of vitality in man, which is the effect of our vice; and hence are begotten fear, superstition, bigotry, persecution, and slavery of all kinds.
“A Plea for Captain John Brown” in Reform Papers, p. 120
Fear creates danger, and courage dispels it.
Written November 12, 1859, in his Journal, vol. XII, p. 443
Nothing is so much to be feared as fear.
Written September 7, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 51
Man is the artificer of his own happiness.
Written January 21, 1838, in his Journal, vol. 1, p. 25
Oh Happiness—what is the stuff thou art made of? Is it not gossamer and floating spider’s webs?—a crumpled sunbeam—a coiled dew line settling on some flower?
Written January 20, 1841, in his Journal, vol. 1, p. 224
Notwithstanding a sense of unworthiness which possesses me not without reason—notwithstanding that I regard myself as a good deal of a scamp—yet for the most part the spirit of the universe is unaccountably kind to me and I enjoy perhaps an unusual share of happiness. Yet I question sometimes if there is not some settlement to come.
Written November 16, 1850, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 144
Practical men, who perform the offices of life but with their bodies, their minds, their understandings, and their senses, and forsake the consequence for the purification of their souls; and, although employed, forsake the fruit of action, obtain infinite happiness; whilst the man who is unemployed, being attached to the fruit by the agent desire, is in the bonds of confinement.
Written after June 20, 1846, in his Journal, vol. 2, p. 256
The villagers are out in the sun and every man is happy whose work takes him out doors.
Written March 15, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 390
He is a happy man who is assured that the animal is dying out in him day by day & the spiritual being established.
Written February 28, 1850, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 49
We are made happy when reason can discover no occasion for it.
To Mrs. Lucy Brown, March 2, 1842, in The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, p. 62
Greater is the depth of Sadness
Than is any height of gladness.
Written September 5, 1841, in his Journal, vol. 1, p. 331
As usual, I find it harder to account for the happiness I enjoy, than for the sadness which instructs me occasionally.
To Mrs. Lucy Brown, January 25, 1843, in The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, p. 79
This has indeed been a grand winter for me & for all of us. I am not considering how much I have enjoyed it. What matters it how happy or unhappy we have been, if we have minded our business and advanced our affairs.
To Daniel Ricketson, March 5, 1856, in The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, p. 412
Happy the man who observes the heavenly and the terrestrial law in just proportion; whose every faculty, from the soles of his feet to the crown of his head, obeys the law of its level; who neither stoops nor goes on tiptoe, but lives a balanced life, acceptable to nature and to God.
To H.G.O. Blake, August 10, 1849, in The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, p. 247
I am too easily contented with a slight and almost animal happiness. My happiness is a good deal like that of the woodchucks.
To H.G.O. Blake, May 2, 1848, in The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, p. 222
To be active, well, happy, implies rare courage.
To H.G.O. Blake, May 20, 1860, in The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, p. 579
Is hope a less powerful incentive to action than fear?
From a college essay on “The comparative moral policy of severe and mild punishments,” September 1835, in Early Essays and Miscellanies, p. 23
Think of dashing the hopes of a morning with a cup of coffee or of an evening with a dish of tea.
Written after September 19, 1850, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 119
All things in this world must be seen with the morning dew on them. Must be seen with youthful early-opened hopeful eyes.
Written June 13, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 5, p. 93
It chanced the other day that I scented a white waterlily, and a season I had waited for had arrived. It is the emblem of purity. It bursts up so pure and fair to the eye, and so sweet to the scent, as if to show us what purity and sweetness reside in, and can be extracted from, the slime and muck of earth.… What confirmation of our hopes is in the fragrance of this flower!
“Slavery in Massachusetts” in Reform Papers, p. 108
Make the most of your regrets—never smother your sorrow but tend and cherish it till it comes to have a separate and integral interest.
Written November 13, 1839, in his Journal, vol. 1, p. 85
You ask if there is no doctrine of sorrow in my philosophy. Of acute sorrow I suppose that I know comparatively little. My saddest and most genuine sorrows are apt to be but transient regrets. The place of sorrow is supplied, perchance, by a certain hard and proportionably barren indifference.
To H.G.O. Blake, May 2, 1848, in The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, p. 221
Fools stand on their island opportunities and look toward another land. There is no other land; there is no other life but this, or the like of this. Where the good husbandman is, there is the good soil. Take any other course, and life will be a succession of regrets. Let us see vessels sailing prosperously before the wind, and not simply stranded barks. There is no world for the penitent and regretful.
Written April 24, 1859, in his Journal, vol. XII, pp. 159–160
Our sympathy is a gift whose value we can never know.
Written February 2, 1841, in his Journal, vol. 1, p. 243
I love that one with whom I sympathize.
Written November 24, 1858, in his Journal, vol. XI, p. 342
It is better to have your head in the clouds, and know where you are, if indeed you cannot get it above them, than to breathe the clearer atmosphere below them, and think that you are in paradise.
To H.G.O. Blake, April 10, 1853, in The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, p. 303
Surely joy is the condition of life.
“Natural History of Massachusetts” in Excursions, p. 5
Perchance the time will come when every house even will have not only its sleeping rooms, and dining room, and talking room or parlor, but its Thinking Room also, and the architects will put it into their plans. Let it be furnished and ornamented with whatever conduces to serious and creative thought.
“A Yankee in Canada” in Excursions, p. 89
The greatest compliment that was ever paid me was when one asked me what I thought, and attended to my answer.
“Life without Principle” in Reform Papers, p. 155
I take it for granted, when I am invited to lecture anywhere,—for I have had a little experience in that business,—that there is a desire to hear what I think on some subject, though I may be the greatest fool in the country,—and not that I should say pleasant things merely, or such as the audience will assent to; and I resolve, accordingly, that I will give them a strong dose of myself. They have sent for me, and engaged to pay for me, and I am determined that they shall have me, though I bore them beyond all precedent.
“Life without Principle” in Reform Papers, p. 155
He is the rich man, and enjoys the fruits of his riches, who summer and winter forever can find delight in his own thoughts.
A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, p. 350
If I were confined to a corner of a garret all my days, like a spider, the world would be just as large to me while I had my thoughts about me.
Walden, p. 328
I am surprised as well as delighted when anyone wishes to know what I think. It is such a rare use they would make of me—as if they were acquainted with the tool. Commonly, if men want anything of me, it is only to know how many acres I make of their land—or at most what trivial news I have burdened myself with. They never will go to law for my meat. They prefer the shell.
Written March 23, 1853, in his Journal, vol. 6, p. 31
I hardly know an intellectual man, even, who is so broad and truly liberal that you can think aloud in his society.
“Life without Principle” in Reform Papers, p. 167
Nothing was ever so unfamiliar and startling to me as my own thought.
Written July 10, 1840, in his Journal, vol. 1, p. 154
As the wild duck is more swift and beautiful than the tame, so is the wild—the mallard—thought, which, ’mid falling dews wings its way above the fens.
“Walking” in Excursions, p. 207
So there is one thought for the field, another for the house. I would have my thoughts, like wild apples, to be food for walkers, and will not warrant them to be palatable, if tasted in the house.
“Wild Apples” in Excursions, p. 282
Great thoughts hallow any labor.
Written April 20, 1841, in his Journal, vol. 1, p. 302
Great thoughts make great men.
Written February 7, 1841, in his Journal, vol. 1, p. 256
My loft iest thought is somewhat like an eagle that suddenly comes into the field of view, suggesting great things and thrilling the beholder, as if it were bound hitherward with a message for me; but it comes no nearer, but circles and soars away, growing dimmer, disappointing me, till it is lost behind a cliff or a cloud.
Written October 26, 1857, in his Journal, vol. X, pp. 128–129
I am surprised that my affirmations or utterances come to me ready-made,—not fore-thought,—so that I occasionally awake in the night simply to let fall ripe a statement which I had never consciously considered before, and as surprising and novel and agreeable to me as anything can be.
Written April 1, 1860, in his Journal, vol. XIII, p. 238
There is no more Herculean task than to think a thought about this life and then get it expressed.
Written May 6, 1858, in his Journal, vol. X, p. 405
How many fine thoughts has 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 and enduring words, and we should see that our dreams are the solidest facts that we know.
To H.G.O. Blake, March 27, 1848, in The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, p. 216
Somebody shut the cat’s tail in the door just now & she made such a catewaul as has driven two whole worlds out of my mind... I saw unspeakable things in the sky & looming in the horizon of my mind and now they are all reduced to a cat’s tail.
Written November 16, 1850, in his Journal, vol. 3, pp. 141–142
I would fain keep a journal which should contain those thoughts & impressions which I am most liable to forget that I have had, which would have, in one sense the greatest remoteness, in another the greatest nearness, to me.
Written after January 10, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 178
A wakeful night will yield as much thought as a long journey. If I try thoughts by their quality—not their quantity—I may find that a restless night will yield more than the longest journey.
Written January 30, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 309
The pleasures of the intellect are permanent—the pleasures of the heart are transitory.
Written January 22, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 276
While I am abroad the ovipositors plant their seeds in me. I am fly blown with thought & go home to hatch & brood over them.
Written July 23, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 330
I am freighted with thought.
Written October 26, 1853, in his Journal, vol. 7, p. 117
How rarely I meet a man who can be free, even in thought!
Written May 12, 1857, in his Journal, vol. IX, p. 362
Our thoughts are wont to run in muddy or dusty ruts.
Written May 12, 1850, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 65
I take my neighbor, an intellectual man, out into the woods and invite him to take a new and absolute view of things, to empty clean out of his thoughts all institutions of men and start again; but he can’t do it, he sticks to his traditions and his crotchets.
Written May 12, 1857, in his Journal, vol. IX, p. 362
Associate reverently and as much as you can with your loft iest thoughts.
Written January 22, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 277
The thinker, he who is serene and self-possessed, is the brave, not the desperate soldier.
Written May 6, 1858, in his Journal, vol. X, p. 404
Cars go by & we know their substance as well as their shadow. They stop & we get into them. But those sublime thoughts passing on high do not stop & we never get into them. Their conductor is not like one of us.
Written February 27, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 200
Walking in the woods it may be some afternoon the shadow of the wings of a thought flits across the landscape of my mind and I am reminded how little eventful is our lives. What have been all these wars & survivors of wars and modern discoveries & improvements so called a mere irritation in the skin. But this shadow which is so soon past & whose substance is not detected suggests that there are events of importance whose interval is to us a true historic period.
Written February 27, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 200
Is not he hospitable who entertains thoughts?
Written June 12, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 259
The mind tastes but few flavors in the course of a year. We are visited by but few thoughts which are worth entertaining, and we chew the cud of these unceasingly. What ruminant spirits we are!
Written August 9, 1858, in his Journal, vol. XI, p. 89
If I am visited by a thought, I chew that cud each successive morning, as long as there is any flavor in it. Until my keepers shake down some fresh fodder. Our genius is like a brush which only once in many months is freshly dipped into the paint-pot. It becomes so dry that though we apply it incessantly, it fails to tinge our earth and sky. Applied to the same spot incessantly, it at length imparts no color to it.
Written August 9, 1858, in his Journal, vol. XI, p. 89
Thoughts of different dates will not cohere.
Written February 8, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 336
Hold fast to your most indefinite, waking dream. The very green dust on the walls is an organized vegetable; the atmosphere has its fauna and flora floating in it; and shall we think that dreams are but dust and ashes, are always disintegrated and crumbling thoughts, and not dust-like thoughts trooping to their standard with music,—systems beginning to be organized?
To H.G.O. Blake, February 27, 1853, in Familiar Letters, p. 216
You fail in your thoughts, or you prevail in your thoughts only.
To H.G.O. Blake, September 26, 1859, in The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, p. 558
When I was young and compelled to pass my Sunday in the house without the aid of interesting books, I used to spend many an hour till the wished-for sundown watching the martins soar (from an attic window) and fortunate indeed did I deem myself when a hawk appeared in the heavens though far toward the horizon against a downy cloud and I searched for hours till I had found his mate. They at least took my thoughts from earthly things.
Written April 17, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 4, pp. 458–459
I pine for one to whom I can speak my first thoughts—thoughts which represent me truly, which are no better & no worse than I—thoughts which have the bloom on them—which alone can be sacred and divine.
Written August 24, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 5, p. 311
What philosopher can estimate the different values of a waking thought & a dream?
Written March 31, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 408
You must walk like a camel, which is said to be the only beast which ruminates while walking.
Written after October 31, 1850, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 130
You conquer fate by thought.
Written May 6, 1858, in his Journal, vol. X, p. 405
My thoughts are my company.
Written January 22, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 277
Our thoughts are the epochs in our lives: all else is but as a journal of the winds that blew while we were here.
To H.G.O. Blake, August 9, 1850, in The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, p. 265
All I can say is that I live & breathe & have my thoughts.
Written after July 29, 1850, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 97
Each thought that is welcomed and recorded is a nest egg by the side of which more will be laid.
Written January 22, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 277
The more you have thought and written on a given theme, the more you can still write. Thought breeds thought.
Written February 13, 1860, in his Journal, vol. XIII, p. 145
Do not seek expressions—seek thoughts to be expressed.
Written December 25, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 223
Take time by the forelock. Now or never! You must live in the present, launch yourself on every wave, find your eternity in each moment.
Written April 24, 1859, in his Journal, vol. XII, p. 159
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.
Walden, p. 98
I delight to come to my bearings,—not walk in procession with pomp and parade, in a conspicuous place, but to walk even with the Builder of the universe, if I may,—not to live in this restless, nervous, bustling, trivial Nineteenth Century, but stand or sit thoughtfully while it goes by.
Walden, pp. 329–330
Nothing can be more useful to a man than a determination not to be hurried.
Written March 22, 1842, in his Journal, vol. 1, p. 385
Be not in haste; mind your private affairs. Consider the turtle. A whole summer—June, July, and August—is not too good nor too much to hatch a turtle in. Perchance you have worried yourself, despaired of the world, meditated the end of life, and all things seemed rushing to destruction; but nature has steadily and serenely advanced with a turtle’s pace.
Written August 28, 1856, in his Journal, vol. IX, pp. 32–33
Keep the time. Observe the hours of the universe—not of the cars.
Written December 28, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 5, p. 412
He that is not behind his time is swift.
Written September 13, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 5, p. 343
We are inclined to think of all Romans who lived within five hundred years B.C. as contemporaries to each other. Yet Time moved at the same deliberate pace then as now.
Written December 8, 1859, in his Journal, vol. XIII, p. 16
Both for bodily & mental health court the present.
Written December 28, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 5, p. 412
A man who is not prompt affects me as a creature covered with slime, crawling through mud and lying dormant a great part of the year.
Written September 16, 1859, in his Journal, vol. XII, p. 330
Time hides no treasures. We want not its then, but its now.
Written August 9, 1841, and transcribed in 1842 in his Journal, vol. 1, p. 414
Time is cheap and rather insignificant. It matters not whether it is a river which changes from side to side in a geological period or an eel that wriggles past in an instant.
Written March 24, 1855, in his Journal, vol. VII, pp. 268–269
When I see a stone which it must have taken many yoke of oxen to move lying in a bank wall which was built 200 years ago, I am curiously surprised because it suggests an energy & force of which we have no memorials. Where are the traces of the corresponding moral and intellectual energy?
Written after May 12, 1850, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 71
I do not remember any page which will tell me how to spend this afternoon. I do not so much wish to know how to economize time as how to spend it—by what means to grow rich.
Written September 7, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 52
If time is short then you have no time to waste.
Written November 16, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 191
As if you could kill time without injuring eternity.
Walden, p. 8
A man is worth most to himself and to others, whether as an observer, or poet, or neighbor, or friend, where he is most himself, most contented and at home.
Written November 20, 1857, in his Journal, vol. X, p. 190
I am afraid to travel much or to famous places lest it might completely dissipate the mind.
Written January 30, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 309
FIG. 13. Thoreau’s house at Walden Pond, based on a sketch by Sophia Thoreau. Reproduced from the title page of the first edition of Walden, or, Life in the Woods (Boston: Ticknor and Fields, 1854). The Walter Harding Collection (The Thoreau Society® Collections at the Thoreau Institute). Courtesy of the Thoreau Society.
Pursue some path, however solitary and narrow and crooked, in which you can walk with love and reverence. Wherever a man separates from the multitude and goes his own way, there indeed is a fork in the road, though the ordinary travellers may along the high way see only a gap in the paling.
Written October 18, 1855, in his Journal, vol. VII, p. 492; emended from manuscript Journal (MA 1302, The Morgan Library & Museum, New York)
We only need travel enough to give our intellects an airing.
Written November 20, 1857, in his Journal, vol. X, p. 191
A Traveller! I love his title. A Traveller is to be reverenced as such. His profession is the best symbol of our life. Going from—toward—
Written July 2, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 283
Our life should be so active and progressive as to be a journey.
Written January 28, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 297
I would say then to my vagrant countrymen—Go not to any foreign theater for spectacles, but consider first that there is nothing which can delight or astonish the eyes, but you may discover it all in yourselves.
“Reform and the Reformers” in Reform Papers, p. 194
The question is not where did the traveller go? What places did he see? It would be difficult to choose between places. But who was the traveller? How did he travel? How genuine an experience did he get? For travelling is in the main like as if you staid at home, & then the question is how do you live & conduct yourself at home?
Written January 11, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 246
We are shown far scenes in order that we may be tempted to inhabit them, and not simply tell what we have seen.
Written November 24, 1857, in his Journal, vol. X, p. 202
It is not worth the while to go round the world to count the cats in Zanzibar.
Walden, p. 322
When you are starting away—leaving your more familiar fields for a little adventure like a walk—you look at every object with a traveller’s or at least with historical eyes—you pause on the first bridge, where an ordinary walk hardly commences, & begin to observe & moralize like a traveller. It is worth the while to see your native village thus sometimes—as if you were a traveller passing through it—commenting on your neighbors as strangers.
Written September 4, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 37
There would be this advantage in travelling in your own country even in your own neighborhood, that you would be so thoroughly prepared to understand what you saw.
Written June 12, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 259
To travel and “descry new lands” is to think new thoughts, and have new imaginings.
Written August 13, 1840, in his Journal, vol. 1, p. 171
The deepest and most original thinker is the farthest travelled.
Written August 13, 1840, in his Journal, vol. 1, p. 171
I have travelled a good deal in Concord.
Walden, p. 4
It takes a man of genius to travel in his own country—in his native village—to make any progress between his door & his gate.
Written August 6, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 357
I have a real genius for staying at home.
To Daniel Ricketson, February 1, 1855, in The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, p. 369
He who rides and keeps the beaten track studies the fences chiefly.
The Maine Woods, p. 86
Far travel, very far travel, or travail, comes near to the worth of staying at home—
To Isaac Hecker, after August 15, 1844, in The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, p. 158
Take the shortest way round and stay at home.
Written November 1, 1858, in his Journal, vol. XI, p. 275
Cleave to the simplest ever—Home—home—home.
To H.G.O. Blake, September 27, 1855, in The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, p. 386
Here I am at home. In the bare and bleached crust of the earth I recognize my friend.
Written November 1, 1858, in his Journal, vol. XI, p. 275
You must love the crust of the earth on which you dwell more than the sweet crust of any bread or cake. You must be able to extract nutriment out of a sand-heap. You must have so good an appetite as this, else you will live in vain.
Written January 25, 1858, in his Journal, vol. X, p. 258
Here, of course, is all that you love, all that you expect, all that you are. Here is your bride elect, as close to you as she can be got. Here is all the best and all the worst you can imagine. What more do you want? Bear here-away then! Foolish people imagine that what they imagine is somewhere else. That stuff is not made in any factory but your own.
Written November 1, 1858, in his Journal, vol. XI, p. 275
Only that travelling is good which reveals to me the value of home and enables me to enjoy it better.
Written March 11, 1856, in his Journal, vol. VIII, p. 205
Today you may write a chapter on the advantages of travelling & to-morrow you may write another chapter on the advantages of not travelling.
Written November 11, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 177
One says to me, “I wonder that you do not lay up money; you love to travel; you might take the cars and go to Fitchburg to-day and see the country.” But I am wiser than that. I have learned that the swift est traveller is he who goes afoot. I say to my friend, Suppose we try who will get there first. The distance is thirty miles; the fare ninety cents. That is almost a day’s wages. I remember when wages were sixty cents a day for laborers on this very road. Well, I start now on foot, and get there before night; I have travelled at that rate by the week together. You will in the mean while have earned your fare, and arrive there some time to-morrow, or possibly this evening, if you are lucky enough to get a job in season. Instead of going to Fitchburg, you will be working here the greater part of the day. And so, if the railroad reached round the world, I think that I should keep ahead of you; and as for seeing the country and getting experience of that kind, I should have to cut your acquaintance altogether.
Walden, p. 53
A traveller who looks at things with an impartial eye may see what the oldest inhabitant has not observed.
Written August 20, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 384
The discoveries which we make abroad are special and particular—those which we make at home are general & significant. The further off the nearer the surface. The nearer home the deeper.
Written September 7, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 54
This is a common experience in my travelling. I plod along, thinking what a miserable world this is and what miserable fellows we that inhabit it, wondering what it is tempts men to live in it; but anon I leave the town behind and am lost in some boundless heath, and life becomes gradually more tolerable, if not even glorious.
Written June 17, 1857, in his Journal, vol. IX, p. 432
It is far more independent to travel on foot. You have to sacrifice so much to the horse. You cannot choose the most agreeable places in which to spend the noon, commanding the finest views, because commonly there is no water there, or you cannot get there with your horse.
Written July 4, 1858, in his Journal, vol. XI, p. 7
A man must generally get away some hundreds or thousands of miles from home before he can be said to begin his travels. Why not begin his travels at home! Would he have to go far or look very closely to discover novelties? The traveller who in this sense pursues his travels at home, has the advantage at any rate of a long residence in the country to make his observations correct & profitable. Now the American goes to England while the Englishman comes to America in order to describe the country. No doubt there some advantages in this kind of mutual criticism, but might there not be invented a better way of coming at the truth than this scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours method?
Written August 6, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 3, pp. 356–357
When it was proposed to me to go abroad, rub off some rust, and better my condition in a worldly sense, I fear lest my life will lose some of its homeliness. If these fields and streams and woods, the phenomena of nature here, and the simple occupations of the inhabitants should cease to interest and inspire me, no culture or wealth would atone for the loss. I fear the dissipation that travelling, going into society, even the best, the enjoyment of intellectual luxuries, imply.
Written March 11, 1856, in his Journal, vol. VIII, p. 204
I cannot but regard it as a kindness in those who have the steering of me that by the want of pecuniary wealth I have been nailed down to this my native region so long & steadily and made to study & love this spot of earth more & more. What would signify in comparison a thin & diffused love and knowledge of the whole earth instead, got by wandering? The traveller’s is but a barren & comfortless condition.
Written November 12, 1853, in his Journal, vol. 7, p. 156
I want nothing new, if I can have but a tithe of the old secured to me. I will spurn all wealth beside. Think of the consummate folly of attempting to go away from here! When the constant endeavor should be to get nearer and nearer here.
Written November 1, 1858, in his Journal, vol. XI, p. 275
The man who is oft en thinking that it is better to be somewhere else than where he is excommunicates himself.
Written November 20, 1857, in his Journal, vol. X, pp. 190–191
What shall we do with a man who is afraid of the woods—their solitude & darkness? What salvation is there for him? God is silent & mysterious.
Written November 16, 1850, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 142
When the chopper would praise a pine, he will commonly tell you, that the one he cut was so big that a yoke of oxen stood on its stump. As if that were what the pine had grown for—to become the footstool of oxen!
The Maine Woods, p. 229
The civilized man regards the pine tree as his enemy. He will fell it & let in the light—grub it up & raise wheat or rye there. It is no better than a fungus to him.
Written February 2, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 320
Nothing stands up more free from blame in this world than a pine tree.
Written December 20, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 212
Nothing is so beautiful as the tree tops.
“A Winter Walk” in Excursions, p. 60
The fruit of a tree is neither in the seed or in the full grown tree (the timber) but it is simply the highest use to which it can be put.
Written March 7, 1859, in his Journal, vol. XII, p. 24; emended from manuscript Journal (MA 1302, The Morgan Library & Museum, New York)
Every larger tree which I knew and admired is being gradually culled out and carried to mill.… I miss them as surely and with the same feeling that I do the old inhabitants out of the village street.
Written December 3, 1855, in his Journal, vol. VIII, p. 38
This winter they are cutting down our woods more seriously than ever—Fair Haven Hill—Walden—Linnaea Borealis wood &c &c. Thank God they cannot cut down the clouds!
Written January 21, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 273
These are the remnants of the primitive wood methinks. We are a young people & have not learned by experience the consequence of cutting off the forest.
Written September 5, 1854, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 45
The invigorating scent of the recently cut pines refreshes us—if that is any atonement for this devastation.
Written January 2, 1853, in his Journal, vol. 5, p. 418
Though they are cutting off the woods at Walden it is not all loss. It makes some new & unexpected prospects.
Written January 30, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 307
What though the woods be cut down, this emergency was long ago foreseen and provided for by Nature, and the interregnum is not allowed to be a barren one. She is full of resources: she not only begins instantly to heal that scar, but she consoles (compensates?) and refreshes us with fruits such as the forest did not produce. To console us she heaps our baskets with berries.
Written December 30, 1860, in his Journal, vol. XIV, p. 301
Methinks the town should have more supervision & control over its parks than it has. It concerns us all whether these proprietors choose to cut down all the woods this winter or not.
Written January 22, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 276
These woods! Why do I not feel their being cut more sorely? Does it not affect me nearly? The axe can deprive me of much. Concord is sheared of its pride. I am certainly the less attached to my native town in consequence. One & a main link is broken. I shall go to Walden less frequently.
Written January 24, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 283
I do not know but a pine wood is as substantial and as memorable a fact as a friend. I am more sure to come away from it cheered than from those who come nearest to being my friends.
Written December 17, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 4, pp. 207–208
How beautiful when a whole tree is like one great scarlet fruit, full of ripe juices, every leaf, from lowest limb to topmost spire, all a-glow, especially if you look toward the sun. What more remarkable object can there be in the landscape?
“Autumnal Tints” in Excursions, p. 232
Well may the tender buds attract us at this season, no less than partridges, for they are the hope of the year, the spring rolled up. The summer is all packed in them.
Written January 12, 1855, in his Journal, vol. VII, p. 114
The scarlet oak leaf! What a graceful and pleasing outline! a combination of graceful curves and angles.… If I were a drawing-master, I would set my pupils to copying these leaves, that they might learn to draw firmly and gracefully. It is a shore to the aerial ocean, on which the windy surf beats.
Written November 11, 1858, in his Journal, vol. XI, p. 314
I should not be ashamed to have a shrub oak for my coat-of-arms.
Written January 7, 1857, in his Journal, vol. IX, p. 207
Many times I thought that if the particular tree, commonly an elm, under which I was walking or riding were the only one like it in the country, it would be worth a journey across the continent to see it. Indeed, I have no doubt that such journies would be undertaken on hearing a true account of it.
Written January 18, 1859, in his Journal, vol. XI, p. 405; emended from manuscript Journal (MA 1302, The Morgan Library & Museum, New York)
In the twilight when you can see only the outlines of the trees in the horizon—the elm tops indicate where the houses are.
Written September 6, 1850, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 111
There was reason enough for the first settlers selecting the elm out of all the trees of the forest with which to ornament his villages. It is beautiful alike by sunlight & moonlight and the most beautiful specimens are not the largest. I have seen some only 25 or 30 years old, more graceful and healthy I think than any others. It is almost become a villageous tree—like martins & blue birds.
Written after July 29, 1850, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 102
See how artfully the seed of a cherry is placed in order that a bird may be compelled to transport it. It is placed in the very midst of a tempting pericarp, so that the creature that would devour a cherry must take a stone into its mouth. The bird is bribed with the pericarp to take the stone with it and do this little service for Nature.
Written September 1, 1860, in his Journal, vol. XIV, p. 70
The cars on our railroad, and all their passengers, roll over the trunks of trees sleeping beneath them which were planted years before the first white man settled in New England.
Written November 21, 1860, in his Journal, vol. XIV, p. 257
The farmer sometimes talks of “brushing up,” simply as if bare ground looked better than clothed ground, than that which wears its natural vesture,—as if the wild hedges, which, perhaps, are more to his children than his whole farm beside, were dirt. I know of one who deserves to be called the Tree-hater, and, perhaps, to leave this for a new patronymic to his children. You would think that he had been warned by an oracle that he would be killed by the fall of a tree, and so was resolved to anticipate them.
The Maine Woods, p. 154
It is not in vain perhaps that every winter the forest is brought to our doors shaggy with lichens. Even in so humble a shape as a wood-pile it contains sermons for us.
Written September 26, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 5, p. 354
Is it the lumberman then who is the friend and lover of the pine—stands nearest to it and understands its nature best? Is it the tanner who has barked it, or he who has boxed it for turpentine, whom posterity will fable to have been changed into a pine at last? No! no! it is the poet; he it is who makes the truest use of the pine—who does not fondle it with an axe, nor tickle it with a saw, nor stroke it with a plane; who knows whether its heart is false without cutting into it; who has not bought the stumpage of the township on which it stands. All the pines shudder and heave a sigh when that man steps on the forest floor. No, it is the poet, who loves them as his own shadow in the air, and lets them stand.
The Maine Woods, pp. 121–122
I have been into the lumber yard, and the carpenter’s shop, and the tannery, and the lampblack factory, and the turpentine clearing; but when at length I saw the tops of the pines waving and reflecting the light at a distance high over all the rest of the forest, I realized that the former were not the highest use of the pine. It is not their bones or hide or tallow that I love most. It is the living spirit of the tree, not its spirit of turpentine, with which I can sympathize, and which heals my cuts. It is as immortal as I am, and perchance will go to as high a heaven, there to tower above me still.
The Maine Woods, p. 122
All trees covered this morning with a hoar frost, very handsome looking toward the sun,—the ghosts of trees.
Written February 12, 1855, in his Journal, vol. VII, p. 179
It takes two to speak the truth,—one to speak, and another to hear.
A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, p. 267
In accumulating property for ourselves or our posterity, in founding a family or a state, or acquiring fame even, we are mortal; but in dealing with truth we are immortal, and need fear no change nor accident.
Walden, p. 99
Any truth is better than make-believe.
Walden, p. 327
What is truth? That which we know not—
“Sir Walter Raleigh” second draft manuscript (Walden Woods Project Collection at the Thoreau Institute at Walden Woods)
Rather than love, than money, than fame, give me truth. I sat at a table where were rich food and wine in abundance, and obsequious attendance, but sincerity and truth were not; and I went away hungry from the inhospitable board.
Walden, pp. 330–331
No face which we can give to a matter will stead us so well at last as the truth. This alone wears well.
Walden, p. 327
If we dealt only with the false and dishonest, we should at last forget how to speak truth.
A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, p. 267
They who know of no purer sources of truth, who have traced up its stream no higher, stand, and wisely stand, by the Bible and the Constitution, and drink at it there with reverence and humility; but they who behold where it comes trickling into this lake or that pool, gird up their loins once more, and continue their pilgrimage toward its fountain-head.
“Resistance to Civil Government” in Reform Papers, p. 88
Men esteem truth remote, in the outskirts of the system, behind the farthest star, before Adam and after the last man.
Walden, pp. 96–97
We do not learn by inference and deduction, and the application of mathematics to philosophy, but by direct intercourse and sympathy. It is with science as with ethics, we cannot know truth by contrivance and method.
“Natural History of Massachusetts” in Excursions, p. 28
Men are making speeches… all over the country, but each expresses only the thought or the want of thought of the multitude. No man stands on truth.
Written May 4, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 5, p. 24
In our science and philosophy, even, there is commonly no true and absolute account of things.
“Life without Principle” in Reform Papers, p. 167
All perception of truth is the detection of an analogy.
Written September 5, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 46
There are innumerable avenues to a perception of the truth.
Written September 4, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 41
It is a rare qualification to be ably to state a fact simply & adequately. To digest some experience cleanly. To say yes and no with authority. To make a square edge. To conceive & suffer the truth to pass through us living & intact.
Written November 1, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 157
It is remarkable that the highest intellectual mood which the world tolerates is the perception of the truth of the most ancient revelations, now in some respects out of date, but any direct revelation, any original thoughts it hates like virtue.
Written November 16, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 188
As the least drop of wine tinges the whole goblet, so the least particle of truth colors our whole life.
Written December 31, 1837, in his Journal, vol. 1, p. 24
Not that I do not stand on all I have written—but what am I to the truth I feebly utter!
To Calvin Greene, February 10, 1856, in The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, p. 407
It is a great satisfaction to find that your oldest convictions are permanent. With regard to essentials, I have never had occasion to change my mind. The aspect of the world varies from year to year, as the landscape is differently clothed, but I find that the truth is still true, and I never regret any emphasis which it may have inspired.
To H.G.O. Blake, August 18, 1857, in The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, p. 491
Let us make distinctions, call things by the right names.
Written November 28, 1860, in his Journal, vol. XIV, p. 278
Nothing is so sure to make itself known as the truth—for what else waits to be known?
Written December 12, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 203
I love to weigh, to settle, to gravitate toward that which most strongly and rightfully attracts me;—not hang by the beam of the scale and try to weigh less,—not suppose a case, but take the case that is; to travel the only path I can, and that on which no power can resist me.
Walden, p. 330
The lawyer’s truth is not Truth, but consistency, or a consistent expediency.
“Resistance to Civil Government” in Reform Papers, p. 87
I am sorry to think that you do not get a man’s most effective criticism until you provoke him. Severe truth is expressed with some bitterness.
Written March 15, 1854, in his Journal, vol. 8, p. 43
A world in which there is a demand for ice creams but not for truths.
Written August 24, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 5, p. 310
Truth is ever returning into herself. I glimpse one feature to-day—another to-morrow—and the next day they are blended.
Written November 13, 1837, in his Journal, vol. 1, p. 11
I fear chiefly lest my expression may not be extra-vagant enough, may not wander far enough beyond the narrow limits of my daily experience, so as to be adequate to the truth of which I have been convinced.
Walden, p. 324
It is remarkable how long men will believe in the bottomlessness of a pond without taking the trouble to sound it.
Walden, p. 285
I too would fain set down something beside facts. Facts should only be as the frame to my pictures. They should be material to the mythology which I am writing. Not facts to assist men to make money—farmers to farm profitably in any common sense. Facts to tell who I am—and where I have been—or what I have thought.
Written November 9, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 170
Truth strikes us from behind, and in the dark, as well as from before and in broad day-light.
Written November 5, 1837, in his Journal, vol. 1, p. 10
I care not whether my vision of truth is a waking thought or dream remembered, where it is seen in the light or in the dark. It is the subject of the vision, the truth alone, that concerns me. The philosopher for whom rainbows, etc., can be explained away never saw them.
Written November 5, 1857, in his Journal, vol. X, p. 165
The settled lecturers are as tame as the settled ministers. The audiences do not want to hear any prophets; they do not wish to be stimulated and instructed, but entertained. They, their wives and daughters, go to the Lyceum to suck a sugar-plum. The little of medicine they get is disguised with sugar. It is never the reformer they hear there, but a faint and timid echo of him only. They seek a pass-time merely.… They ask for orators that will entertain them and leave them where they found them.
Written November 16, 1858, in his Journal, vol. XI, pp. 327–328
It is not enough that we are truthful; we must cherish and carry out high purposes to be truthful about.
“Love” in Early Essays and Miscellanies, p. 272
Sincerity is a great but rare virtue.
To H.G.O. Blake, September 26, 1855, in The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, p. 383
What I was learning in college was chiefly, I think, to express myself, and I see now, that as the old orator prescribed, 1st, action; 2nd, action; 3d, action; my teachers should have prescribed to me, 1st, sincerity; 2nd, sincerity; 3d, sincerity.… I mean sincerity in our dealings with ourselves mainly; any other is comparatively easy.
To Richard Fuller, at Harvard, April 2, 1843, in The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, p. 94
To live in relations of truth & sincerity with men is to dwell in a frontier country.
Written January 12, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 249
Would not men have something to communicate if they were sincere?
Written August 24, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 5, p. 310
Deep are the foundations of sincerity.
A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, p. 329
FIG. 14. Old Marlborough Road, Concord, Massachusetts. Photographer: Herbert W. Gleason. Reproduced from The Writings of Henry D. Thoreau. The Walden Woods Project Collection at the Thoreau Institute at Walden Woods. Courtesy of the Walden Woods Project.
Written April 26, 1841, in his Journal, vol. 1, p. 304
I think that I cannot preserve my health and spirits unless I spend four hours a day at least—and it is commonly more than that—sauntering through the woods and over the hills and fields absolutely free from all worldly engagements.
“Walking” in Excursions, p. 187
An early morning walk is a blessing for the whole day.
Written April 20, 1840, in his Journal, vol. 1, p. 122
Men have cleared some of the earth which no doubt is an advantage to the walker.
Written January 26, 1853, in his Journal, vol. 5, p. 454
I am alarmed when it happens that I have walked a mile into the woods bodily, without getting there in spirit. In my afternoon walk I would fain forget all my morning occupations, and my obligations to society. But it sometimes happens that I cannot easily shake off the village. The thought of some work will run in my head, and I am not where my body is; I am out of my senses. In my walks I would fain return to my senses. What business have I in the woods, if I am thinking of something out of the woods?
“Walking” in Excursions, p. 190
Walking may be a science so far as the direction of a walk is concerned. I go again to the great meadows to improve this remarkably dry season & walk where in ordinary times I cannot go. There is no doubt a particular season of the year when each place may be visited with most profit & pleasure and it may be worth the while to consider what that season is in each case.
Written August 22, 1854, in his Journal, vol. 8, p. 288
You must walk sometimes perfectly free—not prying nor inquisitive—not bent upon seeing things—Th row away a whole day for a single expansion.
Written August 21, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 6
I must walk more with free senses.
Written September 13, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 5, p. 343
I set out once more to climb the mountain of the earth for my steps are symbolical steps & in all my walking I have not reached the top of the earth yet.
Written March 21, 1853, in his Journal, vol. 6, p. 22
I wonder that I even get 5 miles on my way the walk is so crowded with events & phenomena.
Written June 7, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 245
1½ AM. Full moon. Arose and went to the river and bathed, stepping very carefully not to disturb the household and still carefully in the street not to disturb the neighbors. I did not walk naturally & freely till I had got over the wall.
Written August 12, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 362
I have met with but one or two persons in the course of my life who understood the art of Walking, that is, of taking walks, who had a genius, so to speak, for sauntering; which word is beautifully derived “from idle people who roved about the country, in the middle ages, and asked charity, under pretence of going à la sainte terre”—to the holy land, till the children exclaimed, “There goes a sainte-terrer”, a saunterer—a holy-lander. They who never go to the holy land in their walks, as they pretend, are indeed mere idlers and vagabonds, but they who do go there are saunterers in the good sense, such as I mean.
“Walking” in Excursions, p. 185
My walks were full of incidents. I attended not to the affairs of Europe but to my own affairs in Concord fields.
Written January 20, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 270
I trust that the walkers of the present day are conscious of the blessings which they enjoy in the comparative freedom with which they can ramble over the country & enjoy the landscape.
Written February 12, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 3, pp. 189–190
I do not know how to entertain one who can’t take long walks. The first thing that suggests itself is to get a horse to draw them, and that brings us at once into contact with stablers and dirty harness, and I do not get over my ride for a long time. I give up my forenoon to them and get along pretty well, the very elasticity of the air and promise of the day abetting me, but they are as heavy as dumplings by mid-afternoon.
Written October 7, 1857, in his Journal, vol. X, p. 74
After walking by night several times, I now walk by day, but I am not aware of any crowning advantage in it. I see small objects better, but it does not enlighten me any. The day is more trivial.
Written June 15, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 272
It requires considerable skill in crossing a country to avoid the houses & too cultivated parts—… For that route which most avoids the houses is not only the one in which you will be least molested but it is by far the most agreeable.
Written June 19, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 5, p. 114
A turtle walking is as if a man were to try to walk by sticking his legs & arms merely out the windows.
Written May 27, 1853, in his Journal, vol. 6, p. 154
Who hears the rippling of the rivers will not utterly despair of anything.
Written December 12, 1841, in his Journal, vol. 1, p. 342
Every rill is a channel for the juices of the meadow.
“Natural History of Massachusetts,” in Excursions, p. 18
The water sleeps with stars in its bosom.
Written May 5, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 5, p. 29
How cheering it is to behold a full spring bursting forth directly from the earth.… I lie almost flat resting my hands on what offers to drink at this water where it bubbles at the very udders of nature for man is never weaned from her breast while this life lasts. How many times in a single walk does he stoop for a draught.
Written July 5, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 5, p. 186
For the first time it occurred to me this afternoon what a piece of wonder a river is.—A huge volume of matter ceaselessly rolling through the fields and meadows of this substantial earth making haste from the high places, by stable dwellings of men and Egyptian pyramids, to its restless reservoir. One would think that, by a very natural impulse, the dwellers upon the headwaters of the Mississippi and Amazon would follow in the trail of their waters to see the end of the matter.
Written September 5, 1838, in his Journal, vol. 1, p. 55
I should prefer that my farm be bounded by a river—It is to live on the outside of the world and to be well flanked on one side.
Written April 19, 1843, in his Journal, vol. 1, p. 454
The river is my own highway the only wild & unfenced part of the world hereabouts.
Written May 30, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 5, p. 76
A lake is the landscape’s most beautiful and expressive feature. It is earth’s eye; looking into which the beholder measures the depth of his own nature.
Walden, p. 186
To go to the sea! Why, it is to have the experience of Noah,—to realize the deluge. Every vessel is an ark.
Cape Cod, p. 149
A field of water betrays the spirit that is in the air. It is continually receiving new life and motion from above. It is intermediate in its nature between land and sky.
Walden, pp. 188–189
Nothing so fair, so pure, and at the same time so large, as a lake, perchance, lies on the surface of the earth. Sky water.
Walden, p. 188
The sea-shore is a sort of neutral ground, a most advantageous point from which to contemplate this world.
Cape Cod, p. 147
I am made to love the pond & the meadow as the wind to ripple the water.
Written November 21, 1850, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 148
I think that I speak impartially when I say that I have never met with a stream so suitable for boating and botanizing as the Concord, and fortunately nobody knows it. I know of reaches which a single country-seat would spoil beyond remedy, but there has not been any important change here since I can remember.
Written August 6, 1858, in his Journal, vol. XI, p. 77
We pass haymakers in every meadow, who may think that we are idlers. But nature takes care that every nook and crevice is explored by some one. While they look after the open meadows, we farm the tract between the river’s brinks and behold the shores from that side. We, too, are harvesting an annual crop with our eyes, and think you Nature is not glad to display her beauty to us?
Written August 6, 1858, in his Journal, vol. XI, p. 77
It is pleasant to embark on a voyage—if only for a short river excursion—the boat to be your home for the day—especially if it is neat & dry—a sort of moving studio it becomes—you can carry so many things with you. It is almost as if you put oars out at your windows & moved your house along.
Written August 31, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 5, pp. 319–320
No wonder men love to be sailors, to be blown about the world sitting at the helm, to shave the capes & see the islands disappear under their sterns—gubernators to a piece of wood. It disposes to contemplation & is to me instead of smoking.
Written August 30, 1853, in his Journal, vol. 7, pp. 23–24
I like to remember that at the end of half a day’s walk I can stand on the bank of the Merrimack. It is just wide enough to interrupt the land and lead my eye and thought down its channel to the sea. A river is superior to a lake in its liberating influence. It has motion and indefinite length. A river touching the back of a town is like a wing, it may be unused as yet, but ready to waft it over the world. With its rapid current it is a slightly fluttering wing. River towns are winged towns.
Written July 2, 1858, in his Journal, vol. XI, pp. 4–5
Again, rivers appear to have travelled back and worn into the meadows of their creating, and then they become more meandering than ever. Thus in the course of ages the rivers wriggle in their beds, till it feels comfortable under them.
Written March 24, 1855, in his Journal, vol. VII, p. 268
What can be more impressive than to look up a noble river just at evening—one perchance which you have never explored—& behold its placid waters reflecting the woods & sky lapsing inaudibly toward the ocean—to behold as a lake but know it as a river—tempting the beholder to explore it & his own destiny at once.
Written July 9, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 297
Rivers must have been the guides which conducted the footsteps of the first travellers. They are the constant lure, when they flow by our doors, to distant enterprise and adventure, and, by a natural impulse, the dwellers on their banks will at length accompany their currents to the lowlands of the globe, or explore at their invitation the interior of continents. They are the natural highways of all nations, not only levelling the ground, and removing obstacles from the path of the traveller, quenching his thirst, and bearing him on their bosoms, but conducting him through the most interesting scenery, the most populous portions of the globe, and where the animal and vegetable kingdoms attain their greatest perfection.
A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, p. 12
In keeping a journal of one’s walks and thoughts it seems to be worth the while to record those phenomena which are most interesting to us at the time, such as the weather.
Written January 25, 1860, in his Journal, vol. XIII, p. 106; emended from manuscript Journal (MA 1302, The Morgan Library & Museum, New York)
It makes a material difference whether it is foul or fair, affecting surely our mood and thoughts.
Written January 25, 1860, in his Journal, vol. XIII, p. 106; emended from manuscript Journal (MA 1302, The Morgan Library & Museum, New York)
I will call the weather fair, if it does not threaten rain or snow or hail; foul, if it rains or snows or hails, or is so overcast that we expect one or the other from hour to hour.
Written January 25, 1860, in his Journal, vol. XIII, p. 107
There is no better fence to put between you and the village than a storm into which the villagers do not venture out.
Written March 8, 1859, in his Journal, vol. XII, p. 27
This morning it was considerably colder than for a long time, and by noon very much colder than heretofore, with a pretty strong northerly wind.… You need greatcoat and buffalo and gloves now, if you ride. I find my hands stiffened and involuntarily finding their way to my pockets. No wonder that the weather is a standing subject of conversation, since we are so sensitive.
Written November 14, 1857, in his Journal, vol. X, pp. 177–178
How admirable it is that we can never foresee the weather—that that is always novel. Yesterday nobody dreamed of to-day—nobody dreams of to-morrow. Hence the weather is ever the news. What a fine & measureless joy the gods grant us thus, letting us know nothing about the day that is to dawn. This day yesterday was as incredible as any other miracle.
Written December 29, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 227
This first spring rain is very agreeable. I love to hear the pattering of the drops on my umbrella, and I love also the wet scent of the umbrella.
Written March 21, 1858, in his Journal, vol. X, p. 316
I too revive as does the grass after rain.
Written May 12, 1850, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 65
Clouds are our mountains & the child who had lived on a plain always & had never seen a mountain, would find that he was prepared for the sight of them by his familiarity with clouds.
Written January 14, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 253
Is not the dew but a humbler gentler rain—the nightly rain—above which we raise our heads & unobstructedly behold the stars?
Written November 21, 1853, in his Journal, vol. 7, p. 171
Pray what things interest me at present?
A long soaking rain—the drops trickling down the stubble—while I lay drenched on a last year’s bed of wild oats, by the side of some bare hill, ruminating. These things are of moment.
Written March 30, 1840, in his Journal, vol. 1, p. 120
Walk often in drizzly weather for then the small weeds (especially if they stand on bare ground) covered with rain drops like beads appear more beautiful than ever.
Written September 3, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 36
It is worth the while to walk in wet weather—the earth & leaves are strewn with pearls.
Written August 7, 1853, in his Journal, vol. 6, p. 288
We look to windward for fair weather.
Written April 4, 1840, in his Journal, vol. 1, p. 121
This rain is good for thought. It is especially agreeable to me as I enter the wood and hear the soothing dripping on the leaves. It domiciliates me in nature.
Written May 17, 1858, in his Journal, vol. X, p. 427
No weather interfered fatally with my walks, or rather my going abroad, for I frequently tramped eight or ten miles through the deepest snow to keep an appointment with a beech-tree, or a yellow-birch, or an old acquaintance among the pines.
Walden, p. 265
It is because I am allied to the elements that the sound of the rain is thus soothing to me. The sound soaks into my spirit, as the water into the earth, reminding me of the season when snow and ice will be no more, when the earth will be thawed and drink up the rain as fast as it falls.
Written February 15, 1855, in his Journal, vol. VII, p. 186
Some of my pleasantest hours were during the long rain storms in the spring or fall, which confined me to the house for the afternoon as well as the forenoon, soothed by their ceaseless roar and pelting; when an early twilight ushered in a long evening in which many thoughts had time to take root and unfold themselves.
Walden, p. 132
A rain which is as serene as fair weather, suggesting fairer weather than was ever seen. You could hug the clods that defile you. You feel the fertilizing influence of you of the rain in your mind. The part that is wettest is fullest of life, like the lichens. You discover evidences of immortality not known to divines. You cease to die.
Written January 27, 1858, in his Journal, vol. X, p. 262
And then the rain comes thicker and faster than before, thawing the remaining frost in the ground, detaining the migrating bird; and you turn your back to it, full of serene, contented thought, soothed by the steady dropping on the withered leaves, more at home for being abroad, more comfortable for being wet.
Written January 27, 1858, in his Journal, vol. X, pp. 262–263
There is nothing handsomer than a snowflake and a dewdrop. I may say that the maker of the world exhausts his skill with each snowflake and dewdrop that he sends down.
Written January 6, 1858, in his Journal, vol. X, p. 239
What a world we live in! where myriads of these little disks, so beautiful to the most prying eye, are whirled down on every traveller’s coat, the observant and the unobservant.
Written January 5, 1856, in his Journal, vol. VIII, p. 89
Young white pines often stood draped in robes of purest white, emblems of purity, like a maiden that has taken the veil, with their heads slightly bowed and their main stems slanting to one side, like travellers bending to meet the storm with their heads muffled in their cloaks.
Written January 19, 1855, in his Journal, vol. VII, p. 118
The snow is the great betrayer. It not only shows tracks of mice, otters &c &c which else we should rarely if ever see, but the tree sparrows are more plainly seen against its white ground and they in turn are attracted by the dark weeds which it reveals. It also drives the crows & other birds out of the woods to the villages for food. We might expect to find in the snow the footprint of a life superior to our own of which no zoology takes cognizance.
Written January 1, 1854, in his Journal, vol. 7, pp. 218–219
The effect of the snow is to press down the forest—confound it with the grasses & create a new surface to the earth above—shutting us in with it. And we go along somewhat like moles through our galleries. The sight of the pure and trackless road up Brister’s Hill with branches & trees supporting snowy burdens bending over it on each side would tempt us to begin life again.
Written December 26, 1853, in his Journal, vol. 7, pp. 205–206
All day a steady, warm, imprisoning rain carrying off the snow, not unmusical on my roof. It is a rare time for the student and reader who cannot go abroad in the afternoon, provided he can keep awake, for we are wont to be drowsy as cats in such weather. Without, it is not walking but wading. It is so long since I have heard it that the steady, soaking, rushing sound of the rain on the shingles is musical.
Written February 15, 1855, in his Journal, vol. VII, p. 186
A driving east or northeast storm. I can see through the drisk only one mile. The river is getting partly over the meadows at last, and my spirits rise with it. Methinks this rise of the waters must affect every thought and deed in the town. It qualifies my sentence and life.
Written October 26, 1857, in his Journal, vol. X, p. 126; emended from manuscript Journal (MA 1302, The Morgan Library & Museum, New York)
A storm is a new, and in some respects more active, life in nature.
Written October 26, 1857, in his Journal, vol. X, p. 126
I wish my neighbors were wilder.
Written March 30, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 201
In Wildness is the preservation of the World.
“Walking” in Excursions, p. 202
Whatever has not come under the sway of man is wild. In this sense original & independent men are wild—not tamed & broken by society.
Written September 3, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 34
What we call wildness is a civilization other than our own.
Written February 16, 1859, in his Journal, vol. XI, p. 450
The era of the Wild Apple will soon be past. It is a fruit which will probably become extinct in New England.
“Wild Apples” in Excursions, p. 288
Life consists with Wildness. The most alive is the wildest.
“Walking” in Excursions, p. 203
We need the tonic of wildness,—to wade sometimes in marshes where the bittern and the meadow-hen lurk, and hear the booming of the snipe; to smell the whispering sedge where only some wilder and more solitary fowl builds her nest, and the mink crawls with its belly close to the ground.
Walden, p. 317
Trench says a wild man is a willed man. Well then a man of will who does what he wills—or wishes—a man of hope and of the future tense—for not only the obstinate is willed but far more the constant & persevering. The obstinate man properly speaking is one who will not. The perseverance of the saints is positive willedness—not a mere passive willingness. The fates are wild for they will & the Almighty is wild above all.
Written January 27, 1853, in his Journal, vol. 5, pp. 457–458
As I came home through the woods with my string of fish, trailing my pole, it being now quite dark, I caught a glimpse of a woodchuck stealing across my path, and felt a strange thrill of savage delight, and was strongly tempted to seize and devour him raw; not that I was hungry then, except for that wildness which he represented.
Walden, p. 210
Men come tamely home at night only from the next field or street, where their household echoes haunt, and their life pines because it breathes its own breath over again; their shadows morning and evening reach farther than their daily steps. We would come home from far, from adventures, and perils, and discoveries every day, with new experience and character.
Walden, p. 208
I should be pleased to meet man in the woods. I wish he were to be encountered like wild caribous and moose.
Written June 18, 1840, in his Journal, vol. 1, p. 131
We would not always be soothing and taming nature, breaking the horse and the ox, but sometimes ride the horse wild and chase the buffalo.
A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, p. 56
To see wild life you must go forth at a wild season. When it rains & blows keeping men in-doors then the lover of nature must forth.
Written April 19, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 473
Let a slight snow come and cover the earth, and the tracks of men will show how little the woods and fields are frequented.
Written February 3, 1857, in his Journal, vol. IX, p. 236
There are some intervals which border the strain of the wood-thrush, to which I would migrate—wild lands where no settler has squatted; to which, methinks, I am already acclimated.
“Walking” in Excursions, p. 203
The red-bird which I saw on my companion’s string on election days, I thought but the outmost sentinal of the wild immortal camp of the wild & dazzling infantrie of the wilderness—that the deeper woods abounded with redder birds still—but now that I have threaded all our woods & waded the swamps I have never yet met with his compeer—still less his wilder kindred.
Written May 23, 1854, in his Journal, vol. 8, p. 146
It is in vain to dream of a wildness distant from ourselves. There is none such. It is the bog in our brain and bowels, the primitive vigor of Nature in us, that inspires that dream. I shall never find in the wilds of Labrador any greater wildness than in some recess in Concord, i.e. than I import into it.
Written August 30, 1856, in his Journal, vol. IX, p. 43
Ah, bless the Lord, O my soul! bless him for wildness, for crows that will not alight within gunshot! and bless him for hens, too, that croak and cackle in the yard!
Written January 12, 1855, in his Journal, vol. VII, p. 113
I long for wildness—a nature which I cannot put my foot through.
Written June 22, 1853, in his Journal, vol. 6, p. 236
We can never have enough of nature. We must be refreshed by the sight of inexhaustible vigor, vast and Titanic features, the sea-coast with its wrecks, the wilderness with its living and its decaying trees, the thunder cloud, and the rain which lasts three weeks and produces freshets. We need to witness our own limits transgressed, and some life pasturing freely where we never wander.
Walden, p. 318
Some rarely go outdoors—most are always at home at night—very few indeed have stayed out all night once in their lives—fewer still have gone behind the world of humanity—seen its institutions like toad-stools by the way-side.
Written April 2, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 420
I enter some glade in the woods, perchance, where a few weeds and dry leaves alone lift themselves above the surface of snow, and it is as if I had come to an open window. I see out and around myself. Our skylights are thus far away from the ordinary resorts of men. I am not satisfied with ordinary windows. I must have a true skylight.
Written January 7, 1857, in his Journal, vol. IX, p. 209
I love the wild not less than the good.
Walden, p. 210
The title wise is, for the most part, falsely applied. How can one be a wise man, if he does not know any better how to live than other men?
“Life without Principle” in Reform Papers, p. 162
The community has no bribe that will tempt a wise man. You may raise money enough to tunnel a mountain, but you cannot raise enough to hire a man who is minding his own business.
“Life without Principle” in Reform Papers, p. 159
The wisest man preaches no doctrines; he has no scheme; he sees no rafter, not even a cobweb, against the heavens. It is clear sky.
A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, p. 70
A wise man sees as clearly the heathenism & barbarity of his own countrymen as clearly as those of the nations to whom his countrymen send missionaries.
Written January 16, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 258
Men do not fail commonly for want of knowledge, but for want of prudence to give wisdom the preference.
A Week on the Concord and Merrimack, p. 127
We have heard of a Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge. It is said that Knowledge is power; and the like. Methinks there is equal need of a Society for the Diffusion of Useful Ignorance, what we call Beautiful Knowledge, a knowledge in a higher sense; for what is most of our boasted so-called knowledge but a conceit that we know something, which robs us of the advantage of our actual ignorance? What we call knowledge is often our positive ignorance; ignorance our negative knowledge.
“Walking” in Excursions, pp. 214–215
Which is the best man to deal with, he who knows nothing about a subject, and what is extremely rare, knows that he knows nothing,—or he who really knows something about it, but thinks that he knows all?
“Walking” in Excursions, p. 215
A man is wise with the wisdom of his time only & ignorant with its ignorance. Observe how the greatest minds yield in some degree to the superstitions of their age.
Written January 31, 1853, in his Journal, vol. 5, p. 461
I fear that the character of my knowledge is from year to year becoming more distinct & scientific—Th at in exchange for views as wide as heaven’s cope I am being narrowed down to the field of the microscope. I see details not wholes nor the shadow of the whole. I count some parts & say “I know.”
Written August 19, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 380
We shall see but little way if we require to understand what we see. How few things can a man measure with the tape of his understanding—how many greater things might he be seeing in the meanwhile.
Written February 14, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 192
I find it to be the height of wisdom not to endeavor to over-see myself and live a life of prudence and common sense but to see over & above myself—entertain sublime conjectures to make myself the thoroughfare of thrilling thoughts—live all that can be lived.
Written November 23, 1850, in his Journal, vol. 3, pp. 149–150
Why level downward to our dullest perception always, and praise that as common sense? The commonest sense is the sense of men asleep, which they express by snoring.
Walden, p. 325
We are acquainted with a mere pellicle of the globe on which we live. Most have not delved six feet beneath the surface, nor leaped as many above it. We know not where we are. Beside, we are sound asleep nearly half our time.
Walden, p. 332
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.
To H.G.O. Blake, March 27, 1848, in The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, p. 215
Woe be to the generation that lets any higher faculty in its midst go unemployed.
Written December 22, 1853, in his Journal, vol. 7, p. 201
I have always been regretting that I was not as wise as the day I was born.
Walden, p. 98
Who shall distinguish between the law by which a brook finds its river—the instinct a bird performs its migrations—& the knowledge by which a man steers his ship around the globe?
Written May 17, 1854, in his Journal, vol. 8, pp. 132–133
The society of young women is the most unprofitable I have ever tried.
They are so light & flighty that you can never be sure whether they are there or not there. I prefer to talk with the more staid & settled—settled for life, in every sense.
Written November 14, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 186
Last night I heard Mrs Oakes Smith lecture on Womanhood. The most important fact about the lecture was that a woman said it and in that respect it was suggestive.
Went to see her afterward. But the interview added nothing to the previous impression, rather subtracted. She was a woman in the too common sense after all.… You had to substitute courtesy for sense & argument. It requires nothing less than a chivalric feeling to sustain a conversation with a lady. I carried her lecture for her in my pocket wrapped in her handkerchief—my pocket exhales cologne to this moment. The championness of woman’s rights still asks you to be a ladies’ man.
Written December 31, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 233
Some of my friends make singular blunders. They go out of their way to talk with certain young women of whom they think or have heard that they are pretty and take pains to introduce me to them. That may be a reason why they should look at them, but it is not a reason why they should talk with them. I confess that I am lacking a sense perchance in this respect & I derive no pleasure from talking with a young woman half an hour simply because she has regular features.
Written November 14, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 4, pp. 185–186
Every maiden conceals a fairer flower and more luscious fruit than any calix in the field.
Written November 12, 1841, in his Journal, vol. 1, p. 341
The other day I rowed in my boat a free—even lovely young lady—and as I plied the oars she sat in the stern and there was nothing but she between me and the sky. So might all our lives be picturesque if they were free enough.
Written June 19, 1840, in his Journal, vol. 1, p. 132
Man is continually saying to woman, Why will you not be more wise? Woman is continually saying to man, Why will you not be more loving?
“Love” in Early Essays and Miscellanies, p. 268
I saw at Ricketson’s a young woman, Miss Kate Brady, twenty years old.… She was born at the Brady house, I think in Freetown.… I never heard a girl or woman express so strong a love for nature. She purposes to return to that lonely ruin, and dwell there alone, since her mother and sister will not accompany her; says that she knows all about farming and keeping sheep and spinning and weaving, though it would puzzle her to shingle the old house. There she thinks she can “live free.” I was pleased to hear of her plans, because they were quite cheerful & original.… A strong love for outward nature is singularly rare among both men and women. The scenery immediately about her homestead is quite ordinary, yet she appreciates and can use that part of the universe as no other being can. Her own sex, so tamely bred, only jeer at her for entertaining such an idea, but she has a strong head and a love for good reading, which may carry her through. I would by no means discourage, nor yet particularly encourage her, for I would have her so strong as to succeed in spite of all ordinary discouragements.
It is very rare that I hear one express a strong and imperishable attachment to a particular scenery, or to the whole of nature.… They alone are naturalized.… The dead earth seems animated at the prospect of their coming, as if proud to be trodden on by them.… When I hear of such an attachment in a reasonable, a divine, creature to a particular portion of the earth, it seems as if then first the earth succeeded and rejoiced, as if it had been made and existed only for such a use.
Written April 23, 1857, in his Journal, vol. IX, pp. 335–337
We soon began to see women and girls at work in the fields, digging potatoes alone, or bundling up the grain which the men cut. They appeared in rude health with a great deal of color in their cheeks, and if their occupation had made them coarse, it impressed me as better in its effects than making shirts at four-pence apiece, or doing nothing at all, unless it be chewing slate-pencils, with still smaller results. They were much more agreeable objects with their great broad-brimmed hats and flowing dresses, than the men and boys.
“A Yankee in Canada” in Excursions, p. 106
The fragrance of the apple blossom reminds me of a pure & innocent & unsophisticated country girl bedecked for church.
Written May 17, 1853, in his Journal, vol. 6, p. 134
Fig. 15. Thoreau’s survey of Walden Pond. Reproduced from the first edition of Walden, or, Life in the Woods (Boston: Ticknor and Fields, 1854). The Walter Harding Collection (The Thoreau Society® Collections at the Thoreau Institute). Courtesy of the Thoreau Society.
It is remarkable that there is little or nothing to be remembered written on the subject of getting a living: how to make getting a living not merely honest and honorable, but altogether inviting and glorious; for if getting a living is not so, then living is not. One would think, from looking at literature, that this question had never disturbed a solitary individual’s musings. Is it that men are too much disgusted with their experience to speak of it?
“Life without Principle” in Reform Papers, p. 161
Do your work, and finish it. If you know how to begin, you will know when to end.
“A Plea for Captain John Brown” in Reform Papers, p. 134
What is a day if the day’s work be not done?
Written August 30, 1841, in his Journal, vol. 1, p. 325
For more than five years I maintained myself thus solely by the labor of my hands, and I found, that by working about six weeks in a year, I could meet all the expenses of living. The whole of my winters, as well as most of my summers, I had free and clear for study.
Walden, p. 69
If a man walk in the woods for love of them half of each day, he is in danger of being regarded as a loafer; but if he spends his whole day as a speculator, shearing off those woods and making earth bald before her time, he is esteemed an industrious and enterprising citizen. As if a town had no interest in its forests but to cut them down!
“Life without Principle” in Reform Papers, p. 157
There is a coarse and boisterous money-making fellow in the outskirts of our town, who is going to build a bank-wall under the hill along the edge of his meadow. The powers have put this into his head to keep him out of mischief, and he wishes me to spend three weeks digging there with him. The result will be that he will perhaps get some more money to hoard, and leave for his heirs to spend foolishly. If I do this, most will commend me as an industrious and hard-working man; but if I choose to devote myself to certain labors which yield more real profit, though but little money, they may be inclined to look on me as an idler. Nevertheless, as I do not need the police of meaningless labor to regulate me, and do not see anything absolutely praiseworthy in this fellow’s undertaking, any more than in many an enterprise of our own or foreign governments, however amusing it may be to him or them, I prefer to finish my education at a different school.
“Life without Principle” in Reform Papers, pp. 156–157
All the world complain now a days of a press of trivial duties & engagements which prevents their employing themselves on some higher ground they know of,—but undoubtedly if they were made of the right stuff to work on that higher ground, provided they were released from all those engagements—they would now at once fulfill the superior engagement, and neglect all the rest, as naturally as they breathe. They would never be caught saying that they had no time for this when the dullest man knows that this is all that he has time for. No man who acts from a sense of duty ever puts the lesser duty above the greater. No man has the desire and the ability to work on high things but he has also the ability to build himself a high staging.
To H.G.O. Blake, July 21, 1852, in The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, pp. 285–286
I am invited to take some party of ladies or gentlemen on an excursion,—to walk or sail, or the like,—but by all kinds of evasions I omit it, and am thought to be rude and unaccommodating therefore. They do not consider that the wood-path and the boat are my studio, where I maintain a sacred solitude and cannot admit promiscuous company. I will see them occasionally in the evening or at the table, however. They do not think of taking a child away from its school to go ahuckleberrying with them. Why should not I, then, have my school and school hours to be respected? Ask me for a certain number of dollars if you will, but do not ask me for my afternoons.
Written September 16, 1859, in his Journal, vol. XII, pp. 332–333
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 to-morrow.
Walden, p. 93
It may be the fairest day in all the year & you shall not know it—one little chore to do—one little commission to fulfill—one message to carry would spoil heaven itself.
Written July 21, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 321
Winter has come unnoticed by me, I have been so busy writing. This is the life most lead in respect to Nature. How different from my habitual one! It is hasty, coarse, and trivial, as if you were a spindle in a factory. The other is leisurely, fine, and glorious like a flower. In the first case you are merely getting your living; in the second you live as you go along. You travel only on roads of the proper grade without jar or running off the track, and sweep round the hills by beautiful curves.
Written December 8, 1854, in his Journal, vol. VII, p. 80
I have found out a way to live without what is commonly called employment or industry attractive or otherwise. Indeed my steadiest employment, if such it can be called, is to keep myself at the top of my condition, and ready for whatever may turn up in heaven or on earth.
To Henry Williams, Jr., secretary of Thoreau’s Harvard class of 1837, September 30, 1847, in The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, p. 186
The truly efficient laborer will not crowd his day with work, but will saunter to his task, surrounded by a wide halo of ease and leisure, and then do but what he loves best. He is anxious only about the fruitful kernels of time. Though the hen should sit all day, she could lay only one egg, and, besides, would not have picked up materials for another. Let a man take time enough for the most trivial deed, though it be but the paring of his nails.
A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, pp. 107–108
Of all the duties of life it is hardest to be in earnest. It implies a good deal both before and behind. I sit here in the barn this flowing afternoon weather, while the school bell is ringing in the village, and find that all the things immediate to be done are very trivial. I could postpone them to hear this locust sing.
Written August 18, 1841, in his Journal, vol. 1, p. 321
What are 3 score years & ten hurriedly & coarsely lived to moments of divine leisure, in which your life is coincident with the life of the Universe.
Written December 28, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 5, p. 412
Do not hire a man who does your work for money, but him who does it for love of it.
“Life without Principle” in Reform Papers, p. 159
This spending of the best part of one’s life earning money in order to enjoy a questionable liberty during the least valuable part of it reminds me of the Englishman who went to India to make a fortune first, in order that he might return to England and live the life of a poet. He should have gone up garret at once.
Walden, p. 54
We are made to exaggerate the importance of what work we do.
Walden, p. 11
A man had better starve at once than lose his innocence in the process of getting his bread.
Written October 26, 1853, in his Journal, vol. 7, p. 115
The weapons with which we have gained our most important victories, which should be handed down as heirlooms from father to son, are not the sword and the lance, but the bush-whack—the turf-cutter, the spade, and the bog-hoe, rusted with the blood of many a meadow, and begrimed with the dust of many a hard-fought field.
“Walking” in Excursions, p. 207
There are certain current expressions and blasphemous moods of viewing things as when we say “he is doing a good business” which is more prophane than cursing and swearing. There is death and sin in such words. Let not the children hear them.
Written April 20, 1841, in his Journal, vol. 1, p. 302
If a man was tossed out of a window when an infant, and so made a cripple for life, or scared out of his wits by the Indians, it is regretted chiefly because he was thus incapacitated for—business! I think that there is nothing, not even crime, more opposed to poetry, to philosophy, ay, to life itself, than this incessant business.
“Life without Principle” in Reform Papers, p. 156
I once invented a rule for measuring cord-wood, and tried to introduce it in Boston; but the measurer there told me that the sellers did not wish to have their wood measured correctly,—that he was already too accurate for them, and therefore they commonly got their wood measured in Charlestown before crossing the bridge.
“Life without Principle” in Reform Papers, pp. 158–159
The momentous topics of human life are always of secondary importance to the business in hand, just as carpenters discuss politics between the strokes of the hammer, while they are shingling a roof.
Written January 23, 1841, in his Journal, vol. 1, p. 229
How trivial uninteresting & wearisome & unsatisfactory are all employments for which men will pay you money.
Written August 7, 1853, in his Journal, vol. 6, p. 288
I thus from time to time break off my connection with eternal truths and go with the shallow stream of human affairs, grinding at the mill of the Phillistines.
Written January 4, 1857, in his Journal, vol. IX, p. 205
As for my own business, even that kind of surveying which I could do with most satisfaction my employers do not want. They would prefer that I should do my work coarsely and not too well, ay, not well enough. When I observe that there are different ways of surveying, my employer commonly asks which will give him the most land, not which is most correct.
“Life without Principle” in Reform Papers, p. 158
We admire more the man who can use an axe or adze skillfully than him who can merely tend a machine. When labor is reduced to turning a crank it is no longer amusing nor truly profitable.
Written October 19, 1858, in his Journal, vol. XI, pp. 227–228
Most men are engaged in business the greater part of their lives, because the soul abhors a vacuum & they have not discovered any continuous employment for man’s nobler faculties.
Written April 27, 1854, in his Journal, vol. 8, p. 89
Trade curses every thing it handles; and though you trade in messages from heaven, the whole curse of trade attaches to the business.
Walden, p. 70
After having some business dealings with men I am occasionally chagrined & feel as if I had done some wrong & it is hard to forget the ugly circumstance. I see that such intercourse long continued would make me thoroughly prosaic hard & coarse but the longest intercourse with Nature though in her rudest moods does not thus harden & make coarse. A hard insensible man whom we liken to a rock is indeed much harder than a rock. From hard coarse insensible men with whom I have no sympathy I go to commune with the rocks whose hearts are comparatively soft.
Written November 15, 1853, in his Journal, vol. 7, pp. 163–164
The ways in which most men get their living, that is, live, are mere make-shift s, and a shirking of the real business of life,—chiefly because they do not know, but partly because they do not mean, any better.
“Life without Principle” in Reform Papers, p. 162
We know not yet what we have done, still less what we are doing. Wait till evening, and other parts of our day’s work will shine than we had thought at noon, and we shall discover the real purport of our toil. As when the farmer has reached the end of the furrow and looks back, he can best tell where the pressed earth shines most.
A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, p. 129
Most men would feel insulted, if it were proposed to employ them in throwing stones over a wall, and then in throwing them back, merely that they might earn their wages. But many are no more worthily employed now.
“Life without Principle” in Reform Papers, p. 157
If it were not that I desire to do something here (accomplish some work) I should certainly prefer to suffer and die rather than be at the pains to get a living by the modes men propose.
Written February 18, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 196
How happens it that there are few men so well employed,—so much to their minds, but that a little money or fame would buy them off from their present pursuits?
Written September 7, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 55
The farmer is endeavoring to solve the problem of a livelihood by a formula more complicated than the problem itself. To get his shoestrings he speculates in herds of cattle. With consummate skill he has set his trap with a hair spring to catch comfort and independence, and then, as he turned away, got his own leg into it.
Walden, p. 33
I would not be one of those who will foolishly drive a nail into mere lath and plastering; such a deed would keep me awake nights. Give me a hammer, and let me feel for the furring. Do not depend on the putty. Drive a nail home and clinch it so faithfully that you can wake up in the night and think of your work with satisfaction,—a work at which you would not be ashamed to invoke the Muse. So will help you God, and so only. Every nail driven should be as another rivet in the machine of the universe, you carrying on the work.
Walden, p. 330
It is not enough to be industrious; so are the ants. What are you industrious about?
To H.G.O. Blake, November 16, 1857, in The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, p. 496
The ways by which you may get money almost without exception lead downward. To have done anything by which you earned money merely is to have been truly idle or worse. If the laborer gets no more than the wages which his employer pays him, he is cheated, he cheats himself.
“Life without Principle” in Reform Papers, p. 158
For more than two years past I have lived alone in the woods, in a good plastered and shingled house entirely of my own building, earning only what I wanted, and sticking to my proper work.
To Horace Greeley, May 19, 1848, in The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, p. 224
I am convinced, both by faith and experience, that to maintain one’s self on this earth is not a hardship but a pastime, if we will live simply and wisely; as the pursuits of the simpler nations are still the sports of the more artificial. It is not necessary that a man should earn his living by the sweat of his brow, unless he sweats easier than I do.
Walden, pp. 70–71
There is a certain Irish woodchopper who, when I come across him at his work in the woods in the winter, never fails to ask me what time it is, as if he were in haste to take his dinner-pail and go home. This is not as it should be. Every man, and the woodchopper among the rest, should love his work as much as the poet does his.
Written December 12, 1859, in his Journal, vol. XIII, p. 20
I hate the present modes of living and getting a living. Farming and shopkeeping and working at a trade or profession are all odious to me. I should relish getting my living in a simple, primitive fashion.… I believe in the infinite joy and satisfaction of helping myself and others to the extent of my ability.
Written November 5, 1855, in his Journal, vol. VIII, pp. 7–8
Work your vein till it is exhausted, or conducts you to a broader one.
To Daniel Ricketson, March 5, 1856, in The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, p. 412
Fig. 16. Bust by Walton Ricketson (1898). Photographer: Alfred W. Hosmer. The Lewis C. Dawes Collection at the Thoreau Institute at Walden Woods. Courtesy of the Walden Woods Project.
No method nor discipline can supersede the necessity of being forever on the alert.
Walden, p. 111
I would remind my countrymen, that they are to be men first, and Americans only at a late and convenient hour.
“Slavery in Massachusetts” in Reform Papers, p. 102
America is said to be the arena on which the battle of freedom is to be fought; but surely it cannot be freedom in a merely political sense that is meant. Even if we grant that the American has freed himself from a political tyrant, he is still the slave of an economical and moral tyrant.
“Life without Principle” in Reform Papers, p. 174
If the moon looks larger here than in Europe, probably the sun looks larger also. If the heavens of America appear infinitely higher, the stars brighter, I trust that these facts are symbolical of the height to which the philosophy and poetry and religion of her inhabitants may one day soar.
“Walking” in Excursions, p. 200
As a true patriot I should be ashamed to think that Adam in paradise was more favorably situated on the whole than the backwoodsman in this country.
“Walking” in Excursions, p. 201
Fig. 17. Thoreau’s signature, written with eyes closed. The Raymond Adams Collection (The Thoreau Society® Collections at the Thoreau Institute). Courtesy of the Thoreau Society.
The cheaper your amusements, the safer and saner.
Written November 18, 1857, in his Journal, vol. X, p. 188
We are conscious of an animal in us, which awakens in proportion as our higher nature slumbers. It is reptile and sensual, and perhaps cannot be wholly expelled; like the worms which, even in life and health, occupy our bodies. Possibly we may withdraw from it, but never change its nature.
Walden, p. 219
But it should not be by their architecture but by their abstract thoughts that a nation should seek to commemorate itself. How much more admirable the Baghavat geeta than all the ruins of the East. Methinks there are few specimens of architecture so perfect as a verse of poetry. Architectural remains are beautiful not intrinsically & absolutely, but from association.
Written June 26, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 5, p. 154
Consider the beauty of New York architecture and there is no very material difference between this & Baalbec. A vulgar adornment of what is vulgar. To what end pray is so much stone hammered? An insane ambition to perpetuate the memory of themselves by the amount of hammered stone they leave. Such is the glory of nations.… I love better to see stones in place.
Written June 26, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 5, pp. 154–155
Art is not tame, and Nature is not wild, in the ordinary sense. A perfect work of man’s art would also be wild or natural in a good sense. Man tames Nature only that he may at last make her more free even than he found her, though he may never yet have succeeded.
A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, p. 316
The highest condition of art is artlessness.
Written June 26, 1840, in his Journal, vol. 1, p. 143
The artist cannot be in a hurry.
Written September 24, 1859, in his Journal, vol. XII, p. 344; emended from manuscript Journal (MA 1302, The Morgan Library & Museum, New York)
We hug the earth—how rarely we mount! Methinks we might elevate ourselves a little more.
“Walking” in Excursions, p. 219
We avoid all the calamities that may occur in a lower sphere by abiding perpetually in a higher.
Written April 27, 1854, in his Journal, vol. 8, p. 89
If you aspire to anything better than politics, expect no coöperation from men. They will not further anything good. You must prevail of your own force, as a plant springs and grows by its own vitality.
Written April 3, 1858, in his Journal, vol. X, p. 351
We forget to strive and aspire to do better ever than is expected of us.
Written January 13, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 252
It would be vain for us to be looking ever into promised lands toward which in the meanwhile we were not steadily and earnestly travelling, whether the way led over a mountain-top or through a dusky valley.… We are shown far scenes in order that we may be tempted to inhabit them, and not simply tell what we have seen.
Written November 24, 1857, in his Journal, vol. X, p. 202
It is pleasant to walk over the beds of these fresh, crisp, and rustling leaves. How beautifully they go to their graves! how gently lay themselves down and turn to mould!—painted of a thousand hues, and fit to make the beds of us living.
“Autumnal Tints” in Excursions, p. 241
To be awake is to be alive. I have never yet met a man who was quite awake.
Walden, p. 90
The millions are awake enough for physical labor; but only one in a million is awake enough for effective intellectual exertion, only one in a hundred millions to a poetic or divine life.
Walden, p. 90
The merchants and banks are suspending and failing all the country over, but not the sand-banks, solid and warm, and streaked with bloody blackberry vines. You may run upon them as much as you please.… In these banks, too, and such as these, are my funds deposited, a fund of health and enjoyment. Their (the crickets’) prosperity and happiness and, I trust, mine do not depend on whether the New York banks suspend or no. We do not rely on such slender security as the thin paper of the Suff olk Bank. To put your trust in such a bank is to be swallowed up and under go suff ocation. Invest, I say, in these country banks. Let your capital be simplicity and contentment.… I have no compassion for, nor sympathy with, this miserable state of things. Banks built of granite, after some Grecian or Roman style, with their porticoes and their safes of iron, are not so permanent, and cannot give me so good security for capital invested in them, as the heads of withered hardhack in the meadow. I do not suspect the solvency of these. I know who is their president and cashier.
Written October 14, 1857, in his Journal, vol. X, pp. 92–93
Bathing is an undescribed luxury.
Written July 9, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 5, p. 205
I got up early and bathed in the pond; that was a religious exercise, and one of the best things which I did.
Walden, p. 88
I would exchange my immortality for a glass of small beer this hot weather.
To his sister, Sophia, July 13, 1852, in The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, p. 284
Instead of water we got here a draught of beer, which, it was allowed, would be better; clear and thin, but strong and stringent as the cedar sap. It was as if we sucked at the very teats of Nature’s pine-clad bosom in these parts—the sap of all Millinocket botany commingled—the topmost most fantastic and spiciest sprays of the primitive wood, and whatever invigorating and stringent gum or essence it aff orded, steeped and dissolved in it—a lumberer’s drink, which would acclimate and naturalize a man at once—which would make him see green, and, if he slept, dream that he heard the wind sough among the pines.
The Maine Woods, pp. 27–28
It is difficult to begin without borrowing.
Walden, pp. 40–41
Individuals, like nations, must have suitable broad and natural boundaries, even a considerable neutral ground, between them.
Walden, p. 141
If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. Now put the foundation under them.
Walden, p. 324
His castles in the air fall to the ground, because they are not built lofty enough; they should be secured to heaven’s roof.
On social reformer John Adolphus Etzler in “Paradise (to be) Regained” in Reform Papers, pp. 44–45
Some circumstantial evidence is very strong, as when you find a trout in the milk.
Written November 11, 1850, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 139
It is remarkable that no pains is taken to teach children to distinguish colors. I am myself uncertain about the names of many.
Written January 28, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 300
The color shows fairest & brightest in the bud.
Written June 25, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 5, p. 145
The heavens were blue when I was young and that is their color still.
Written January 26, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 292
The grass there is delightfully green.… It is the most refreshing of all colors.
Written April 2, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 416
Brown is the color for me, the color of our coats and our daily lives, the color of the poor man’s loaf. The bright tints are pies and cakes, good only for October feasts, which would make us sick if eaten every day.
Written March 28, 1859, in his Journal, vol. XII, pp. 97–98
This plain sheet of snow which covers the ice of the pond, is not such a blankness as is unwritten, but such as is unread. All colors are in white.
Written December 19, 1840, in his Journal, vol. 1, p. 207
There is absolutely no common sense; it is common nonsense.
“Paradise (to be) Regained” in Reform Papers, p. 41
I am sane only when I have risen above my common sense—when I do not take the foolish view of things which is commonly taken, when I do not live for the low ends for which men commonly live. Wisdom is not common. To what purpose have I senses if I am thus absorbed in affairs?
Written June 22, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 274
If we will be quiet and ready enough, we shall find compensation in every disappointment.
Written September 23, 1838, in his Journal, vol. 1, p. 56
Compliments and flattery oftenest excite my contempt by the pretension they imply, for who is he that assumes to flatter me? To compliment often implies an assumption of superiority in the complimenter. It is, in fact, a subtle detraction.
Written March 27, 1857, in his Journal, vol. IX, p. 307
All the community may scream because one man is born who will not do as it does, who will not conform because conformity to him is death,—he is so constituted. They know nothing about his case; they are fools when they presume him to advise. The man of genius knows what he is driving at; nobody else knows. And he alone knows when something comes between him and his object.
Written December 27, 1858, in his Journal, vol. XI, p. 380; emended from manuscript Journal (MA 1302, The Morgan Library & Museum, New York)
A man of settled views, whose thoughts are few and hardened like his bones, is truly mortal, and his only resource is to say his prayers.
Written December 19, 1859, in his Journal, vol. XIII, p. 35
Even consistency though it is much abused is sometimes a virtue.
Written after April 19, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 204
We are enabled to criticise others only when we are different from & in a given particular superior to them ourselves. By our aloofness from men and their affairs we are enabled to overlook & criticise them.
Written June 22, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 274
Let us spend one day as deliberately as Nature, and not be thrown off the tracks by every nutshell and mosquito’s wing that falls on the rails.
Walden, p. 97
I have come out this afternoon a-cranberrying.… I expected little of this walk, yet it did pass through the side of my mind that somehow, on this very account (my small expectation), it would turn out well, as also the advantage of having some purpose, however small, to be accomplished—of letting your deliberate wisdom and foresight in the house to some extent direct and control your steps.
Wild Fruits, p. 165
Resolve to read no book—to take no walk—to undertake no enterprise but such as you can endure to give an account of to yourself. Live thus deliberately for the most part.
Written August 23, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 10
We would have more pause and deliberation.
“Herald of Freedom” in Reform Papers, p. 51
What he says of poetry is rapidly uttered, and suggestive of a thought, rather than the deliberate development of any.
“Thomas Carlyle and His Works” in Early Essays and Miscellanies, p. 246
Dreams are the touchstones of our characters. We are scarcely less afflicted when we remember some unworthiness in our conduct in a dream, than if it had been actual, and the intensity of our grief, which is our atonement, measures the degree by which this is separated from an actual unworthiness. For in dreams we but act a part which must have been learned and rehearsed in our waking hours, and no doubt could discover some waking consent thereto.
A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, p. 297
In dreams we see ourselves naked and acting out our real characters, even more clearly than we see others awake.
A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, p. 297
The nearest approach to discovering what we are is in dreams.
Written April 27, 1841, in his Journal, vol. 1, pp. 304–305
I am surprised that we make no more ado about echoes. They are almost the only kindred voices that I hear.
Written February 11, 1853, in his Journal, vol. 5, p. 466
In all emergencies there is always one step which you may take on firm ground where gravity will assure you footing.
Written February 5, 1841, in his Journal, vol. 1, p. 250
What was enthusiasm in the young man must become temperament in the mature man.
Written November 1, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 158
The rarest quality in an epitaph is truth.
A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, p. 170
Friends and contemporaries should supply only the name and date, and leave it to posterity to write the epitaph.
A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, p. 170
Exaggeration! Was ever any virtue attributed to a man without exaggeration? Was ever any vice, without infinite exaggeration?
“Thomas Carlyle and His Works” in Early Essays and Miscellanies, p. 264
Let us not underrate the value of a fact; it will one day flower in a truth.
“Natural History of Massachusetts” in Excursions, p. 27
Of what moment are facts that can be lost,—which need to be commemorated?
“Dark Ages” in Early Essays and Miscellanies, p. 143
Fame itself is but an epitaph; as late, as false, as true.
A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, p. 170
In some cases fame is perpetually false and unjust. Or rather I should say that she never recognizes the simple heroism of an action, but only as connected with its apparent consequence. It praises the interested energy of the Boston tea party, but will be comparatively silent about the more bloody & disinterestedly heroic attack on the Boston Court House—simply because the latter was unsuccessful. Fame is not just. It never finely or discriminatingly praises, but coarsely hurrahs. The truest acts of heroism never reach her ear, are never published by her trumpet.
Written June 4, 1854, in his Journal, vol. 8, p. 175
All nations love the same jests and tales, Jews, Christians, and Mahometans, and the same translated suffice for all. All men are children, and of one family.
A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, p. 59
Ninety-nine one-hundredths of our lives we are mere hedgers and ditchers, but from time to time we meet with reminders of our destiny.
Written January 13, 1857, in his Journal, vol. IX, p. 218
The principal, the only thing a man makes is his condition, or fate.
To H.G.O. Blake, May 20, 1860, in The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, p. 579
Talk of fate! How little one can know what is fated to another!—what he can do and what he can not do!
Written December 27, 1858, in his Journal, vol. XI, p. 379
Who can doubt that men are by a certain fate what they are, contending with unseen and unimagined difficulties, or encouraged and aided by equally mysterious auspicious circumstances?
Written January 23, 1858, in his Journal, vol. X, p. 251
No people ever lived by cursing their fathers, however great a curse their fathers may have been to them.
Cape Cod, p. 17
Commonly men will only be brave as their fathers were brave, or timid.
Walden, p. 164
The fault-finder will find faults even in paradise.
Walden, p. 328
Faults are not the less faults because they are invariably balanced by corresponding virtues.
A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, p. 282
Some would find fault with the morning-red, if they ever got up early enough.
Walden, p. 325
Gardening is civil and social, but it wants the vigor and freedom of the forest and the outlaw.
A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, p. 55
Why should they begin digging their graves as soon as they are born?
Walden, p. 5
Nothing but great antiquity can make grave-yards interesting to me. I have no friends there.
A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, pp. 170–171
The fruitless enterprise of some persons who rush helter-skelter, carrying out their crazy scheme,—merely “putting it through,” as they phrase it,—reminds me of those thistle-downs which, not being detained nor steadied by any seed at the base, are blown away at the first impulse and go rolling over all obstacles. They may indeed go fastest and farthest, but where they rest at last not even a thistle springs.
Written November 18, 1858, in his Journal, vol. XI, pp. 332–333
The longer the lever the less perceptible its motion. It is the slowest pulsation which is most vital. The hero then will know how to wait, as well as to make haste. All good abides with him who waiteth wisely; we shall sooner overtake the dawn by remaining here than by hurrying over the hills of the west.
A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, pp. 128–129
Heaven is the inmost place.
Written December 29, 1841, in his Journal, vol. 1, p. 349
Heaven is under our feet as well as over our heads.
Walden, p. 283
Here or nowhere is our heaven.
A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, p. 380
The flowing sail—the running stream—the waving tree—the roving wind—whence else their infinite health and freedom?
I can see nothing so holy as unrelaxed play and frolic in this bower God has built for us. The suspicion of sin never comes to this thought.
Oh if men felt this they would never build temples even of marble or diamond, but it would be sacrilege and prophane, but disport them forever in this paradise.
Written December 29, 1841, in his Journal, vol. 1, p. 350
Do I not live in a garden—in paradise? I can go out each morning before breakfast & do & gather these flowers, with which to perfume my chamber where I read & write all day.
Written June 16, 1854, in his Journal, vol. 8, p. 202
Most events recorded in history are more remarkable than important, like eclipses of the sun and moon, by which all are attracted, but whose effects no one takes the trouble to calculate.
A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, p. 129
Critical acumen is exerted in vain to uncover the past; the past cannot be presented; we cannot know what we are not. But one veil hangs over past, present, and future, and it is the province of the historian to find out, not what was, but what is. Where a battle has been fought, you will find nothing but the bones of men and beasts; where a battle is being fought, there are hearts beating.
A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, p. 155
Wherever men have lived there is a story to be told, and it depends chiefly on the story-teller or historian whether it is interesting or not.
Written March 18, 1861, in his Journal, vol. XIV, p. 330
It will soon be forgotten, in these days of stoves, that we used to roast potatoes in the ashes after the Indian fashion of cooking.
Written March 2, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 371
Consider what stuff history is made of,—that for the most part it is merely a story agreed on by posterity.
Cape Cod, p. 197
Especially the transcendental philosophy needs the leaven of humor to render it light and digestible.
“Thomas Carlyle and His Works” in Early Essays and Miscellanies, p. 235
Men are the inveterate foes of all improvement.
Written April 3, 1858, in his Journal, vol. X, p. 351
Almost all our improvements, so called, tend to convert the country into the town.
Written August 22, 1860, in his Journal, vol. XIV, p. 57
Improve each occasion when thy soul is reached—drain the cup of inspiration to its last dregs.
Written January 24, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 281
The times may change, but the laws of integrity and magnanimity are immutable.
“Sir Walter Raleigh” in Early Essays and Miscellanies, p. 185
It is not the invitation which I hear, but which I feel, that I obey.
Written April 22, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 208
It costs us nothing to be just.
Written October 21, 1859, in his Journal, vol. XII, p. 414
A broad margin of leisure is as beautiful in a man’s life as in a book.
Written December 28, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 5, p. 412
Sometimes, in a summer morning, having taken my accustomed bath, I sat in my sunny doorway from sunrise till noon, rapt in a revery, amidst the pines and hickories and sumachs, in undisturbed solitude and stillness, while the birds sang around or flitted noiseless through the house, until by the sun falling in at my west window, or the noise of some traveller’s wagon on the distant highway, I was reminded of the lapse of time. I grew in those seasons like corn in the night, and they were far better than any work of the hands would have been. They were not time subtracted from my life, but so much over and above my usual allowance.
Walden, pp. 111–112
I thought with what more than princely, with what poetical, leisure I had spent my years hitherto, without care or engagement, fancy-free. I have given myself up to nature; I have lived so many springs and summers and autumns and winters as if I had nothing else to do but to live them, and imbibe whatever nutriment they had for me; I have spent a couple of years, for instance, with the flowers chiefly, having none other so binding engagement as to observe when they opened; I could have afforded to spend a whole fall observing the changing tints of the foliage.
Written September 19, 1854, in his Journal, vol. VII, p. 46; emended from manuscript Journal (MA 1302, The Morgan Library & Museum, New York)
Many a forenoon have I stolen away, preferring to spend thus the most valued part of the day; for I was rich, if not in money, in sunny hours and summer days, and spent them lavishly; nor do I regret that I did not waste more of them in the workshop or the teacher’s desk.
Walden, pp. 191–192
An echo makes me enunciate distinctly. So the sympathy of a friend gives plainness and point to my speech. This is the advantage of letter writing.
Written December 29, 1840, in his Journal, vol. 1, p. 211
Letterwriting too oft en degenerates into a communicating of facts, & not of truths; of other men’s deeds, & not our thoughts.
To his sister, Helen, October 27, 1837, in The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, p. 15
The library is a wilderness of books.
Written March 16, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 392
Though books are to some extent my stock and tools, I have not the usual means with which to purchase them. I therefore regard myself as one whom especially the library was created to serve.
To Jared Sparks, president of Harvard College, September 17, 1849, asking permission to borrow books from the college library, in The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, p. 249
I have sometimes imagined a library, i.e. a collection of the works of true poets philosophers naturalists &c deposited not in a brick and marble edifice in a crowded & dusty city, guarded by cold-blooded & methodical officials & preyed on by bookworms, in which you own no share, and are not likely to, but rather far away in the depths of a primitive forest—like the ruins of central America—where you can trace a series of crumbling alcoves, the older books protecting the more modern from the elements—partially buried by the luxuriance of nature—which the heroic student could reach only after adventures in the wilderness, amid wild beasts & wild men. That to my imagination seems a fitter place for these interesting relics, which owe no small part of their interest to their antiquity.
Written February 3, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 4, pp. 321–322
Men think foolishly they may abuse & misspend life as they please and when they get to heaven turn over a new leaf.
Written July 21, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 3, pp. 321–322
I wish to suggest that a man may be very industrious, and yet not spend his time well. There is no more fatal blunderer than he who consumes the greater part of life getting his living.
“Life without Principle” in Reform Papers, p. 160
If a person lost would conclude that after all he is not lost, he is not beside himself, but standing in his own old shoes on the very spot where he is, and that for the time being he will live there; but the places that have known him, they are lost,—how much anxiety and danger would vanish.
A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, p. 184
It is a surprising and memorable, as well as valuable experience, to be lost in the woods any time.
Walden, p. 170
Majesty is in the imagination of the beholder.
Written December 20, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 210
How little there is on an ordinary map! How little, I mean, that concerns the walker and the lover of nature.… The waving woods, the dells and glades and green banks and smiling fields, the huge boulders, etc., etc., are not on the map, nor to be inferred from the map.
Written November 10, 1860, in his Journal, vol. XIV, pp. 228–229
The marriage which the mass of men comprehend is but little better than the marriage of the beasts.
Written August 11, 1853, in his Journal, vol. 6, p. 297
I hear a man laughed at because he went to Europe twice in search of an imaginary wife who, he thought, was there, though he had never seen nor heard of her. But the majority have gone further while they stayed in America, have actually allied themselves to one whom they thought their wife and found out their mistake too late to mend it.
Written October 14, 1859, in his Journal, vol. XII, p. 384
I have had a tragic correspondence, for the most part all on one side, with Miss Ford. She did really wish to—I hesitate to write—marry me. That is the way they spell it. Of course I did not write a deliberate answer. How could I deliberate upon it? I sent back as distinct a no as I have learned to pronounce after considerable practice, and I trust that this no has succeeded. Indeed, I wished that it might burst, like hollow shot, after it had struck and buried itself and make itself felt there. There was no other way. I really had anticipated no such foe as this in my career.
To Ralph Waldo Emerson, November 14, 1847, in The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, pp. 190–191
The men and things of to-day are wont to lie fairer and truer in to-morrow’s memory.
Written March 27, 1857, in his Journal, vol. IX, p. 306
Men talk about bible miracles because there is no miracle in their lives. Cease to gnaw that crust. There is ripe fruit over your head.
Written June 9, 1850, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 84
If misery loves company, misery has company enough.
Written September 1, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 26
Misfortunes occur only when a man is false to his Genius.
Written April 27, 1854, in his Journal, vol. 8, p. 89
The best way to correct a mistake is to make it right.
To Ralph Waldo Emerson, January 24, 1843, in The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, p. 76
An honest misunderstanding is often the ground of future intercourse.
Written March 6, 1841, in his Journal, vol. 1, p. 279
At the same time that we are earnest to explore and learn all things, we require that all things be mysterious and unexplorable, that land and sea be infinitely wild, unsurveyed and unfathomed by us because unfathomable.
Walden, pp. 317–318
A familiar name cannot make a man less strange to me.
“Walking” in Excursions, p. 213
With what infinite faith & promise & moderation begins each new day.
Written August 12, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 363
Each new year is a surprise to us.
Written March 18, 1858, in his Journal, vol. X, p. 304
Woe be to us when we cease to form new resolutions on the opening of a new year.
Written March 31, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 406
Our appetite for novelty is insatiable. We do not attend to ordinary things, though they are most important, but to extra-ordinary ones. While it is only moderately hot or cold, or wet or dry, nobody attends to it, but when Nature goes to an extreme in any of these directions we are all on the alert with excitement.
Written March 19, 1859, in his Journal, vol. XII, pp. 65–66; emended from manuscript Journal (MA 1302, The Morgan Library & Museum, New York)
Do not trouble yourself much to get new things, whether clothes or friends. Turn the old; return to them.… Sell your clothes and keep your thoughts.
Walden, p. 328
A man goes to the end of his garden, inverts his head, and does not know his own cottage. The novelty is in us, and it is also in nature.
Written February 9, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 339
I do not know that I am very fond of novelty. I wish to get a clearer notion of what I have already some inkling.
Written August 6, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 357
I am perchance most & most profitably interested in the things which I already know a little about—a mere & utter novelty is a mere monstrosity to me.
Written August 6, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 357
Boys are bathing at Hubbard’s Bend playing with a boat.… The color of their bodies in the sun at a distance is pleasing—the not oft en seen flesh color. I hear the sound of their sport borne over the water. As yet we have not man in nature. What a singular fact for an angel visitant to this earth to carry back in his note book that men were forbidden to expose their bodies under the severest penalties.
Written June 11, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 5, p. 90
It is for want of original thought that one man’s style is like another’s.
Written September 8, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 61
It is by patient and unanxious labor at the anvil that fairer mornings are to be compelled.
Written October 5, 1840, in his Journal, vol. 1, p. 184
Praise should be spoken as simply & naturally as a flower emits its fragrance.
Written January 31, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 310
How can any man suffer long? For a sense of want is a prayer, and all prayers are answered.
Written December 1, 1856, in his Journal, vol. IX, p. 146
May I dare as I have never done. May I persevere as I have never done. May I purify myself anew as with fire & water—soul & body. May my melody not be wanting to the season. May I gird myself to be a hunter of the beautiful that naught escape me. May I attain to a youth never attained. I am eager to report the glory of the universe,—may I be worthy to do it—to have got through with regarding human values so as not to be distracted from regarding divine values. It is reasonable that a man should be something worthier at the end of the year than he was at the beginning.
Written March 15, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 390
Let me forever go in search of myself—never for a moment think that I have found myself—be as a stranger to myself, never a familiar, seeking acquaintance still.
Written July 16, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 312
It is never too late to give up our prejudices.
Walden, p. 8
I have found my account in travelling in having prepared beforehand a list of questions which I would get answered, not trusting to my interest at the moment, and can then travel with the most profit.
Written August 30, 1856, in his Journal, vol. IX, pp. 37–38
I think we may detect that some sort of preparation and faint expectation preceded every discovery we have made.
Written September 2, 1856, in his Journal, vol. IX, p. 53
One moment of life costs many hours—hours not of business but of preparation & invitation. Yet the man who does not betake himself at once & desperately to sawing is called a loafer—though he may be knocking at the doors of heaven all the while which shall surely be opened to him. That aim in life is highest which requires the highest & finest discipline. How much—What infinite leisure it requires—as of a lifetime, to appreciate a single phenomenon! You must camp down beside it as for life—having reached your land of promise & give yourself wholly to it. It must stand for the whole world to you—symbolical of all things.
Written December 28, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 5, pp. 412–413
I know many children to whom I fain would make a present on some one of their birthdays, but they are so far gone in the luxury of presents—have such perfect museums of costly ones—that it would absorb my entire earnings for a year to buy them something which would not be beneath their notice.
Written November 5, 1855, in his Journal, vol. VIII, p. 8
Among the Indians, the earth and its productions generally were common and free to all the tribe, like the air and water—but among us who have supplanted the Indians, the public retain only a small yard or common in the middle of the village, with perhaps a graveyard beside it, and the right of way, by sufferance, by a particular narrow route, which is annually becoming narrower, from one such yard to another.
“Huckleberries,” p. 30
At present, in this vicinity, the best part of the land is not private property; the landscape is not owned, and the walker enjoys comparative freedom. But possibly the day will come when it will be partitioned off into so-called pleasure grounds, in which a few will take a narrow and exclusive pleasure only,—when fences shall be multiplied, and man traps and other engines invented to confine men to the public road; and walking over the surface of God’s earth, shall be construed to mean trespassing on some gentleman’s grounds. To enjoy a thing exclusively is commonly to exclude yourself from the true enjoyment of it. Let us improve our opportunities then before the evil days come.
“Walking” in Excursions, pp. 194–195
It is true, as is said, that we have as good a right to make berries private property as to make grass and trees such; but what I chiefly regret is the, in effect, dog-in-the-manger result, for at the same time that we exclude mankind from gathering berries in our field, we exclude them from gathering health and happiness and inspiration and a hundred other far finer and nobler fruits than berries, which yet we shall not gather ourselves there, nor even carry to market.
Written August 22, 1860, in his Journal, vol. XIV, p. 56
What sort of a country is that where the huckleberry fields are private property? When I pass such fields on the highway, my heart sinks within me. I see a blight on the land. Nature is under a veil there.
“Huckleberries,” p. 28
As in many countries precious metals belong to the crown, so here natural objects of rare beauty should belong to the public.
Written January 3, 1861, in his Journal, vol. XIV, p. 305
Not only the channel but one or both banks of every river should be a public highway.
Written January 3, 1861, in his Journal, vol. XIV, p. 305
They who laid out the town should have made the river available as a common possession forever.
“Huckleberries,” pp. 31–32
Without being owner of any land I find that I have a civil right in the river—that if I am not a landowner I am a water owner.… It is an extensive “common” still left.
Written March 23, 1853, in his Journal, vol. 6, p. 30
I think that the top of Mount Washington should not be private property; it should be left unappropriated for modesty and reverence’s sake, or if only to suggest that earth has higher uses than we put her to.
Written January 3, 1861, in his Journal, vol. XIV, p. 305
Does he chiefly own the land who coldly uses it and gets corn and potatoes out of it, or he who loves it and gets inspiration from it?
Written April 23, 1857, in his Journal, vol. IX, p. 337
Boys, if you went to talk business with a man, and he persisted in thrusting words having no connection with the subject into all parts of every sentence—Boot-jack, for instance,—wouldn’t you think he was taking a liberty with you, and trifling with your time, and wasting his own?
On using profanity, told to his students, as reported by Edward Emerson in Henry Thoreau as Remembered by a Young Friend, pp. 128–129
The fathers and the mothers of the town would rather hear the young man or young woman at their tables express reverence for some old statement of the truth than utter a direct revelation themselves. They don’t want to have any prophets born into their families. Damn them.
Written November 16, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 4, pp 188, 771
He is a fortunate man who gets through the world without being burthened by a name and reputation for they are at any rate but his past history and no prophecy and as such concern him no more than another.
Written March 2, 1842, in his Journal, vol. 1, p. 368
When I came down-stairs this morning, it raining hard and steadily, I found an Irishman sitting with his coat on his arm in the kitchen, waiting to see me. He wanted to inquire what I thought the weather would be to-day! I sometimes ask my aunt, and she consults the almanac. So we shirk the responsibility.
Written August 12, 1858, in his Journal, vol. XI, pp. 94–95
The wise man is restful—never restless or impatient.
Written September 17, 1839, in his Journal, vol. 1, p. 81
Revenge is most unheroic.
“Sir Walter Raleigh” in Early Essays and Miscellanies, p. 185
Roads are made for horses and men of business. I do not travel in them much comparatively, because I am not in a hurry to get to any tavern, or grocery, or livery stable, or depot to which they lead.
“Walking” in Excursions, p. 192
If we would save our lives we must fight for them.
Written June 16, 1854, in his Journal, vol. 8, p. 199
Employ your senses.
Written June 13, 1851, in his Journal, vol. 3, p. 261
The subject of Sex is a remarkable one, since, though its phenomena concern us so much both directly and indirectly, and, sooner or later it occupies the thoughts of all, yet, all mankind, as it were, agree to be silent about it, at least the sexes commonly one to another.
“Chastity & Sensuality” in Early Essays and Miscellanies, p. 274
In a pure society, the subject of copulation would not be so oft en avoided from shame and not from reverence, winked out of sight, and hinted at only, but treated naturally and simply,—perhaps simply avoided, like the kindred mysteries. If it cannot be spoken of for shame, how can it be acted of?
“Chastity & Sensuality” in Early Essays and Miscellanies, p. 274
Love and lust are as far asunder as a flower garden is from a brothel.
“Chastity & Sensuality” in Early Essays and Miscellanies, p. 276
The only excuse for reproduction is improvement. Nature abhors repetition.
“Chastity & Sensuality” in Early Essays and Miscellanies, p. 278
The intercourse of the sexes, I have dreamed, is incredibly beautiful, too fair to be remembered. I have had thoughts about it, but they are among the most fleeting and irrecoverable in my experience.
“Chastity & Sensuality” in Early Essays and Miscellanies, p. 277
I know a man who never speaks of the sexual relation but jestingly, though it is a subject to be approached only with reverence & affection. What can be the character of that man’s love?
Written July 5, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 5, p. 183
I never had any trouble in all my life, or only when I was about fourteen; then I felt pretty bad a little while on account of my sins, but no trouble since that I know of. That must be the reason why my hair doesn’t turn gray faster.
Recalled by Sophia Thoreau in 1863, after “speaking of one’s hair turning gray, and to what cause it is sometimes attributed,” as related by Calvin Greene in “Memories of Thoreau: Unpublished Anecdotes of New England’s Anti-Puritan Author and Naturalist” (The Truth Seeker, November 20, 1897), p. 144
Mr Russell showed his microscope at Miss Mackay’s.… The power of this glass was 900 diameters. All the objects were transparent and had a liquid look—crystalline—& reminded me of the moon seen through a telescope. They suggested the significance or insignificance of size & that the moon itself is a microscopic object to us so little it concerns us.
Written August15, 1854, in his Journal, vol. 8, p. 273
Many public speakers are accustomed, as I think foolishly, to talk about what they call little things in a patronising way sometimes, advising, perhaps, that they be not wholly neglected; but in making this distinction they really use no juster measure than a ten-foot pole, and their own ignorance. According to this rule a small potatoe is a little thing, a big one a great thing.…
A cartwheel is a great thing—a snow flake a little thing. The Wellingtonia gigantea— the famous California tree, is a great thing—the seed from which it sprang a little thing—scarcely one traveller has noticed the seed at all—and so with all the seeds or origins of things.
... In short, whatever they know and care but little about is a little thing.
“Huckleberries,” p. 3
Obey the spur of the moment.
Written January 26, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 290
There is no rule more invariable than that we are paid for our suspicions by finding what we suspected.
A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, p. 277
No innocence can quite stand up under suspicion if it is conscious of being suspected. In the company of one who puts a wrong construction upon your actions, they are apt really to deserve a mean construction. While in that society I can never retrieve myself. Attribute to me a great motive, and I shall not fail to have one, but a mean one, and the fountain of virtue will be poisoned by the suspicion.
Written January 28, 1841, in his Journal, vol. 1, p. 233
By some obscure law of influence when we are perhaps unconsciously the subject of another’s suspicion, we feel a strong impulse, even when it is contrary to our nature to do that which he expects but reprobates.
Written between1842 and 1844, in his Journal, vol. 2, p. 45
Men are more obedient at first to words than ideas. They mind names more than things. Read them a lecture on “Education,” naming that subject, and they will think that they have heard something important, but call it “Transcendentalism,” and they will think it moonshine.
Written February 13, 1860, in his Journal, vol. XIII, p. 145
I should have told them at once that I was a transcendentalist. That would have been the shortest way of telling them that they would not understand my explanations.
Written March 5, 1853, in his Journal, vol. 5, pp. 469–470
Where is the “Unexplored land” but in our own untried enterprises?
To H.G.O. Blake, May 20, 1860, in The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, p. 580
What was the meaning of that South-Sea Exploring Expedition, with all its parade and expense, but an indirect recognition of the fact, that there are continents and seas in the moral world, to which every man is an isthmus or an inlet, yet unexplored by him, but that it is easier to sail many thousand miles through cold and storm and cannibals, in a government ship, with five hundred men and boys to assist one, than it is to explore the private sea, the Atlantic and Pacific Ocean of one’s being alone.
Walden, p. 321
I hear of a convention to be held at Baltimore, or elsewhere, for the selection of a candidate for the Presidency, made up chiefly of editors, and men who are politicians by profession; but I think, what is it to any independent, intelligent, and respectable man what decision they may come to, shall we not have the advantage of his wisdom and honesty, nevertheless? Can we not count upon some independent votes? Are there not many individuals in the country who do not attend conventions? But no: I find that the respectable man, so called, has immediately drift ed from his position, and despairs of his country, when his country has more reason to despair of him. He forthwith adopts one of the candidates thus selected as the only available one, thus proving that he is himself available for any purposes of the demagogue. His vote is of no more worth than that of any unprincipled foreigner or hireling native, who may have been bought. Oh for a man who is a man, and, as my neighbor says, has a bone in his back which you cannot pass your hand through!
“Resistance to Civil Government” in Reform Papers, p. 70
All voting is a sort of gaming, like chequers or backgammon, with a slight moral tinge to it, a playing with right and wrong, with moral questions; and betting naturally accompanies it. The character of the voters is not staked. I cast my vote, perchance, as I think right; but I am not vitally concerned that that right should prevail. I am willing to leave it to the majority. Its obligation, therefore, never exceeds that of expediency. Even voting for the right is doing nothing for it. It is only expressing to men feebly your desire that it should prevail. A wise man will not leave the right to the mercy of chance, nor wish it to prevail through the power of the majority. There is but little virtue in the action of masses of men. When the majority shall at length vote for the abolition of slavery, it will be because they are indifferent to slavery, or because there is but little slavery left to be abolished by their vote. They will then be the only slaves. Only his vote can hasten the abolition of slavery who asserts his own freedom by his vote.
“Resistance to Civil Government” in Reform Papers, pp. 69–70
Cast your whole vote, not a strip of paper merely, but your whole influence.
“Resistance to Civil Government” in Reform Papers, p. 76
War is but the compelling of peace.
“The Service” in Reform Papers, p. 9
I do not wish to kill nor to be killed, but I can foresee circumstances in which both these things would be by me unavoidable.
“A Plea for Captain John Brown” in Reform Papers, p. 133
Does the threatened war between France & England evince any more enlightenment than a war between two savage tribes—the Irroquois & the Hurons? Is it founded in better reason?
Written February 26, 1852, in his Journal, vol. 4, p. 365
The soldier is applauded who refuses to serve in an unjust war by those who do not refuse to sustain the unjust government which makes the war.
“Resistance to Civil Government” in Reform Papers, p. 71
We love to fight far from home.
To H.G.O. Blake, December 19, 1854, in The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, p. 355
The papers are talking about the prospects of a war between England and America. Neither side sees how its country can avoid a long and fratricidal war without sacrificing its honor. Both nations are ready to take a desperate step, to forget the interests of civilization and Christianity and their commercial prosperity and fly at each other’s throats. When I see an individual thus beside himself, thus desperate, ready to shoot or be shot, like a blackleg who has little to lose, no serene aims to accomplish, I think he is a candidate for bedlam. What asylum is there for nations to go to?
Written February 27, 1856, in his Journal, vol. VIII, p. 189
Water the weed till it blossoms; with cultivation it will bear fruit.
Written June 20, 1840, in his Journal, vol. 1, p. 134
Shall I not rejoice also at the abundance of the weeds whose seeds are the granary of the birds?
Walden, p. 166
When the farmer cleans out his ditches I mourn the loss of many a flower which he calls a weed.
Written April 9, 1853, in his Journal, vol. 6, p. 83
Weeds are uncultivated herbaceous plants which do not bear handsome flowers.
Written September 3, 1856, in his Journal, vol. IX, p. 59
The humblest weed is indescribably beautiful.
Written January 11, 1854, in his Journal, vol. 7, p. 236