Tag: literature

from The Malady of Death

~ Paul Maher Jr. ~ Leave a comment

Marguerite Duras says “in heterosexual love there’s no solution. Man and woman are irreconcilable, and it’s the doomed attempt to do the impossible, repeated in each new affair, that lends heterosexual love its grandeur.”

from Marguerite Duras’s The Malady of Death:

If I ever filmed this text I’d want the weeping by the sea to be shot in such a way that the white turmoil of the waves is seen almost simultaneously with the man’s face. There should be a correlation between the white of the sheets and the white of the sea. The sheets should be a prior image of the sea. All this by way of general suggestion.

The Malady of Death is a moving, erotic story that explores the relationship between sex, love, and death. The book is really about a soul which has died and its means of finding love through (as it seems) “meaningless” sex, often in complete silence, a strange kind of voiceless ecstasy. A man (whom the author addresses as “you”) hires a woman to spend several weeks with him by the sea where he suffers and longs to feel something, anything, in that brief period of time. The language of the text is what I would expect from Marguerite Duras: terse yet lyrical prose, moving in the way it injects simple, familiar words with the weight of emptiness and passion and suffering. I could read this book again and be moved in the same way as I was the first time. The most remarkable exchange between the man and women occurs here, perhaps my favorite lines in the entire work: “You ask how loving can happen–the emotion of loving. She answers: Perhaps a sudden lapse in the logic of the universe. She says: Through a mistake, for instance. She says: Never through an act of will. You ask: Could the emotion of loving come from other things too? She says: It can come from anything, from the flight of a night bird, from a sleep, from a dream of sleep, from the approach of death, from a word, from a crime, of itself, oneself, often without knowing how.”

On Channeling

~ Paul Maher Jr. ~ Leave a comment

I tell Caitlin that I “have to channel for a minute,” and begin to write, with a gathering of strange Blakean energies gather forces to launch front he tip of my tongue through my fingers and I see nothing else but what I am thinking to write, that certainly will be come a most splendid misfire, or the touchstone to some other idea, that I believe it could humble me, or even alienate me, but none the less it stays sincere and moves through the channels of the heart, there I confess through my dictate the winding and churning of an idea seeded by emotion and watered by innovation, there can be nothing else as intermediary, it can only be encouraged like wet desire and the prodding of a child through the doorway into the world…

Writing becomes an act in itself, not the night or its stars, or the sea and its waves, but the page and its words rolling back ever-certain, ever-urged toward its own shore, breaking at frothy import the intention of its well-aimed volley.

Or it misfires.

But in accidents there lies the most important discoveries. Here in the world I cocoon myself within, I harness the silken thread of divine thoughts invincible.

The result is a page broken and tumbled, like a fallen statue that once held its subject to a loftier aim, but now, reduced to rubble, foiled, only to resurrect

in time

its time

will you be there for me

will you be there

will you?

Tongue Heart

~ Paul Maher Jr. ~ Leave a comment

One has to get done before the other becomes possible.

One is the burden to determine; the other a determined burden.

He always thought that maybe he’d be one of the boys, but the boys weren’t having him, and so he slighted them as strangers, and he being not one of them decided he must be something else.

There was a time when he thought he’d never fall in love. He watched the girls, and later women, stroll up and down the paper clip boulevard, elongated monkey shadows, alien and torn in a silk stocking crisis, lifted like steam from worming manholes, womanifested into sour-pored flesh, sent to fulfill some strategy or deed of a higher divine purpose, or marching into cotton-candy fire and so he longed for them, longed for love, teething their silken scarves rippling along their necks, clutching swollen handbags, fire lips pursed and dream-fingers adorned with painted nails, skin alkaline, death-marbl’d.

He was love-starved; he knew it too, knew it as far as he sought it in the desperation of books and magazines, penning furious tongue poems and missives from heart to heart, mainlined through a defeated battery of nerves and tiger intelligence.

And so, having neither man nor woman, he had only himself to consider, and of that he was not fond at all. He drove in the country and barked at trees, dropping to his knees, skin-burned by the moon and heart-chilled by the sun, suffering savage taunts from birdcall, wanting yearning needing what he could not find, finding not what he needed.

The world was a walking shadow-play. He cut himself with knives and stabbed his tired heart with scissors.

Once he removed his heart, clean and beating and placed it on a paper plate. He watched the purple blood seep into the porous paper. He thought maybe he’d take a photo of it, and so he did, and he walked that night up and down the boulevard wanting to show the world what he could do.

The man’s face was knit from a savage and brutish energy; in the bathroom mirror he asked himself ‘who will love me?”

Who – will – love – me – ?

Will I find death unto dying, will I find love unto loving?

And it wasn’t the sex he was starved for, but the essence of it, that creamy tapioca of legs and arms raped by piercing sunburned hair – hair so burned it smelled like a dog – and he wanted to belt his arms around her and talk in animal tongues that she could understand, a primitive death-rattle of birth yearning joy.

But it was all for naught, he could not take it any longer and so he stood on the street with a cardboard sign around his neck.

“In here be the soul you so despise – take my skin my heart my eyes tongue liver follicles dirt – despise me fully but my soul you cannot reach.”

For many days and nights he stood with his sign, his sallow skin gone fallow, eyes burned into opal fire, watching the daily transgressions honk their horns into the empty heart-lamps of the world.

It was all for naught, and so he took his sign and threw it in a trashcan.

Maybe the tide will be in. I can try there.

Buy I Am the Revolutionary: Young Jack Kerouac today!

~ Paul Maher Jr. ~ Leave a comment

I Am the Revolutionary: Young Jack Kerouac

I Am the Revolutionary: Young Jack Kerouac takes the reader from Kerouac's childhood years in Lowell, Massachusetts through his World War II years in New York City and across America, where the hapless writer searches for his voice as a writer and an artist. Using archival material such as journals, notebooks, diaries and letters as well as Kerouac's published books, this portrait serves to bring into focus the internal and external forces that forged the leader of the Beat Generation's highly-original poetry and prose.

$18.00

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I Am the Revolutionary: Young Jack Kerouac takes the reader from Kerouac’s childhood years in Lowell, Massachusetts through his World War II years in New York City and across America, where the hapless writer searches for his voice as a writer and an artist. Using archival material such as journals, notebooks, diaries and letters as well as Kerouac’s published books, this portrait serves to bring into focus the internal and external forces that forged the leader of the Beat Generation’s highly-original poetry and prose.

Purchase of this book will help fund our film on Henry David Thoreau, Executive Produced by Terrence Malick!

Thank you!

Paul

[Update] Lost Notebook is Found

~ Paul Maher Jr. ~ Leave a comment

I evidently left it in a break room at work. Maybe people read it, maybe not? There’s something to say for having messy handwriting, that only the most determined will try to wade through a slew of retrograde cursive…

So, was it so important? Yes, to me it was.

Maybe an excerpt:

In a cave she walked after turning away, and the old man followed, walking his dog whose snout skimmed the wet sand and the rolling cold wash of the sea. The cove was set away from the beach proper, where large glacial erratics had been rolled into place to form a getty that stretched out about one-quarter mile into the sea.

As she strolled, her bare thighs wet with the splash of waves that deliciously licked them, her toes touched her shadows. Her feet were stark white under the sun. She did not look back. She knew already that he would follow abidingly, as readily as the dog. By the time she reached the getty, she began her ascent over the stones.

The old man stopped, unwilling at first to climb, but to stand and watch her lift her long tawny legs over the wet-dark boulders. The sea rolled around the old man’s shins and then his knees. The dog moved further away. He dropped the leash. The dog walked several feet away and sat squarely on its wet haunches shivering.

On the highest stone she stood looking at the sun, her neck craned and cheek tilted, feeling warm fingers trace the fineries of her hot skin. She closes her eyes listening to the sea. The bubbling gurgle between the rocks and the slapping hiss of the incoming tide began to sweep over the furthest reach of the getty.

For several minutes she stayed that way, as if in adoration or invocation to a god or some such pagan idolatry. Her hands unfastened the first of her garments. The straps of a thin top slipped off and dropped in a heap on the rock, her small breasts leaning into the hand of the hot sun. A strange thrill of union to her grand lineage, of legions of others like her stretched to the ancients in blind obedience to the equinox, thrilled her.

The whiteness of her face, like fire illuminating parchment, and eyes shining with no fixed color, but of all colors, and then lids rapturously closed as she sat with knees drawn like Venus in her grove, fixed to her supine posture, breasts upthrusted and sprayed of shining droplets from hand-tossed Atlantis waves, she slowly emptied a sigh into the unerring wind.

There was no mother, father, man or woman, but only the elements desirous of her as if all of it served in slavish devotion to her and her alone…”

Thanks for reading…

from The White Peacock (I)

~ Paul Maher Jr. ~ Leave a comment

The White Peacock (1911), D.H. Lawrence’s first novel, was inspired by a painting, “An Idyll” painted by Maurice Greiffenhagen in 1891. Lawrence proclaimed that the painting had “a profound effect” on him. He later wrote, “As for Greiffenhagen’s ‘Idyll’, it moves me almost as if I were in love myself. Under its intoxication, I have flirted madly this Christmas.” I explore this effect in the second half of this essay.

Here, there is another painting under scrutiny by Lawrence, in the same chapter (III) as the “Idyll” reference, titled “A Vendor of Visions”, young Leticia (or “Lettie”) Tempest denounces her beau’s brother, George Beardsall, as a provincial. George is part of a love triangle with Lettie and Leslie Beardsall. Lettie, subsequently (and unhappily) marries Leslie, but will remain sexually drawn to George. In the third chapter, they sit in a drawing room where she retrieves her collection of art books.

Prior to this, she has been a tease. She tells George “you are only a boy.” She yields her own sense of feminine mystery in a coy and effectual manner. She is protected by a ring of chaperones and the creature comforts of opulence and tradition. She lacks for naught but experience, to which she flirts with a sensate desire to succumb, yet holds herself back.

Lettie toys with recklessness. She frivolously plays on doomed George’s desire for wanting more out of life. He can never escape her fixed grasp on his heart and his life will never be fulfilled as long as she coyly taunts him with what he will never have.

After she carries in a great pile of art books, he tells her that she is “strong.”

“I know how a man will compliment me by the way he looks at me”–she kneeled before the fire. “Some look at my hair, some watch the rise and fall of my breathing, some look at my neck, and a few–not you among them–look me in the eyes for my thoughts. To you, I’m a fine specimen, strong! Pretty strong! You primitive man!”

But George must reach through the fire to seize the gem. Lettie must reach through the gem stone of George to seize the fire she desires so cravenly.

For Lettie, she feels that her superiority, her cultured upbringing, is a tool that she can yield over George’s haplessness. She is condescending, despite likely knowing that she could just as easily be over her head. The other women present, Lettie’s mother, Alice and Sybil all hint that he is “slow.” There is a distinct feeling of “otherness” here. Alice quips to George, “your people,” as if he rose from some other inferior race that they find charming, like a trained ape juggling balls in a Victorian drawing room.

Lettie sits with George and flips through the pages of an art book. When she arrives to George Clausen’s watercolor of peasants hoeing for turnips, she uses the opportunity to square George off for his seeming lack of culture:

“You’d be just that colour in the sunset,” she said, thus bringing him back to the subject, “and if you looked at the ground you’d find there was a sense of warm gold fire in it, and once you’d perceived the colour, it would strengthen till you’d see nothing else. You are blind; you are only half-born; you are gross with good living and heavy sleeping. You are a piano which will only play a dozen common notes. Sunset is nothing to you–it merely happens anywhere. Oh, but you make me feel as if I’d like to make you suffer. If you’d ever been sick; if you’d ever been born into a home where there was something oppressed you, and you couldn’t understand; if ever you’d believed, or even doubted, you might have been a man by now. You never grow up, like bulbs which spend all summer getting fat and fleshy, but never wakening the germ of a flower. As for me, the flower is born in me, but it wants bringing forth. Things don’t flower if they’re overfed. You have to suffer before you blossom in this life. When death is just touching a plant, it forces it into a passion of flowering. You wonder how I have touched death. You don’t know. There’s always a sense of death in this home. I believe my mother hated my father before I was born. That was death in her veins for me before I was born. It makes a difference–“

George doesn’t know how to respond. He is, Lawrence writes, “like a child who feels the tale but does not understand the words.”

She asks George if he is “bewildered,” and he seems very much so, until she flips the page and he is confronted with “An Idyll.”

“There…” he states, and here the table turns on Lettie, for she has indeed tread too deep into uncharted waters.

Read more from the White Peacock (II).

from The White Peacock (II)

~ Paul Maher Jr. ~ 1 Comment

In D.H. Lawrence’s first novel, The White Peacock, we have the two, George and Lettie, looking at pictures in an art book. She first shows him Clausen’s painting of peasants hoeing turnips (see previous blog post). He then sees and reacts to the painting (much like Lawrence after seeing it and consequently wrote the first of three drafts of his first novel, The White Peacock).

It is Maurice Greiffinhagen’s “An Idyll” (1891).

The obsession with the painting by Lawrence is very much in accordance with Dostoevsky’s obsession with Holbein’s painting of the dead Christ lying in his tomb (which influenced the writing of The Idiot).

The following exchange takes place between George and Lettie:

They turned on, chatting casually, till George suddenly exclaimed, “There!”

It was Maurice Greiffinhagen’s “Idyll”.

“What of it?” she asked, gradually flushing. She remembered her own enthusiasm over the picture.

“Wouldn’t it be fine?” he exclaimed, looking at her with glowing eyes, his teeth showing white in a smile that was not amusement.

“What?” she asked, dropping her head in confusion. “That–a girl like that–half afraid–and passion!” He lit up curiously.

“She may well be half afraid, when the barbarian comes out in his glory, skins and all.”

“But don’t you like it?” he asked.

She shrugged her shoulders, saying, “Make love to the next girl you meet, and by the time the poppies redden the field, she’ll hang in your arms. She’ll have need to be more than half afraid, won’t she?”

It is a scene fraught with sexual tension. Lettie possibly feels that George is brutish (unlike his brother and her beau, Leslie) and therefore unresponsive to things like art and sunsets, as she claims he is when she shows him the Clausen painting.

Response to art is irregardless of social class. It is reactive. It incites in George the very feeling stirring between them. Lettie feels that should she fall under a similar opium-daze, that he would take brutally take advantage of her: “by the time the poppies redden the field, she’ll hang in your arms. She’ll have need to be more than half afraid.”

The painting itself which hangs in the National Liverpool Museum, a lusty shepherd firmly embraces a yielding maid on a slope of pasturage. Despite the abundant display of female nudity in many of the paintings surrounding it in the High Victorian gallery at the Walker Art Gallery, such explicit embracing scenes are rare.

The shepherd is seen taking the young maiden with a sudden powerful movement. Her body slumps powerless in his arms. The fairness of her skin contrasts with his swarthy skin tones. He, like George, seems to be a man accustomed to working outdoors. She is a parlor princess, perhaps out on a walk unchaperoned.

Her expression may be seen as ecstatic, but it seems more likely that she is surrendering to the young man’s passion than actively participating in the act of embracing. Should she had taken on a more active role, it would have been unacceptable to a Victorian audience.

The woman’s complacency and her serene rapturous gaze captures the passionate spontaneity of the moment.

Greiffenhagen’s reliance on color as the painting’s expressive medium is striking. The vibrant warm red of the poppies splayed at the lovers’ feet contrasts with the wash of blues and greens in the background. The execution of the work is evident in loose and quick brushstrokes. The artist develops form through color much like a French Impressionist.

Lawrence’s obsession with the painting is well-documented. In 1929 he declared
“all my life I have gone back to painting, because it gave me a form of delight that words can never give.” ‘An Idyll’ embodied passion for him.

He was utterly fascinated by the painting, confessing in a 1908 letter that “the painting moved me almost as much as if I had fallen in love myself.” He made three copies of ‘An Idyll’, one of which he began drawing the night his mother died in 1910.

‘An Idyll’s” appearance in The White Peacock is as sudden and rapturous as George toward Lettie. The painting stirs passionate feelings in George which Lettie is at odds to compensate. Only moments before she had denounced him as a man unable to properly appreciate a sunset. When he suddenly reacts to “An Idyll,” she is taken aback by his response.

His critique of the maiden in the painting mirrors Lettie’s emotional being at that moment: “a girl like that–half afraid–and passion!”

It is almost a case of aesthetic arrest, like Joyce’s Dedaulus glimpsing a young woman bathing in a stream. The frenzied wayward journey of passion leads straight to the heart, with tributaries branching off to the loins and eyes:

“He was breathlessly quivering under the new sensation of heavy, unappeased fire in his breast, and in the muscles of his arms. He glanced at her bosom and shivered.”

It is as though the two had come across a dirty picture in the midst of an album of family photos. Awkwardly they must quantify their barely-disguised passion for each other, but also, suppress it with Victorian-era modesty. Lettie is quick to denounce him as a provincial. She is unable to appreciate his genuine interaction with the painting, which is the very goal of art itself, to stir a response.

“Didn’t you know the picture before?” she said, in a low, toneless voice.

He shut his eyes and shrank with shame.

“No, I’ve never seen it before,” he said.

“I’m surprised,” she said. “It is a very common one.”

“Is it?” he answered, and this make-belief conversation fell. She looked up, and found his eyes. They gazed at each other for a moment before they hid their faces again. It was a torture to each of them to look thus nakedly at the other, a dazzled, shrinking pain that they forced themselves to undergo for a moment, that they might the moment after tremble with a fierce sensation that filled their veins with fluid, fiery electricity. She sought, almost in panic, for something to say.

“I believe it’s in Liverpool, the picture,” she contrived to say.

He dared not kill this conversation, he was too self-conscious. He forced himself to reply, “I didn’t know there was a gallery in Liverpool.”

“Oh yes, a very good one,” she said.

They are loaded guns, both unable to shoot straight, or at all. Lawrence’s mastery of the novel form is in full display here, like the peacock of the title. The hallmarks of his emerging strength as a writer is evident. He is able to evoke both the masculine and feminine aspects convincingly. Lawrence inhabits both the male and female sensibility, kindling a fire that must either be extinguished or built to full flame. Lettie opts for the former, taking the art books and leaving the room, but still aware of her power over George. Her Exit Stage Left sees her holding the books just below her breasts, as if by accentuating them she can still bring George’s fervor to an even higher pitch.

“Their eyes met in the briefest flash of a glance, then both turned their faces aside. Thus averted, one from the other, they made talk. At last she rose, gathered the books together, and carried them off. At the door she turned. She must steal another keen moment: “Are you admiring my strength?” she asked. Her pose was fine. With her head thrown back, the roundness of her throat ran finely down to the bosom, which swelled above the pile of books held by her straight arms. He looked at her. Their lips smiled curiously. She put back her throat as if she were drinking. They felt the blood beating madly in their necks. Then, suddenly breaking into a slight trembling, she turned round and left the room.”

Reading this last night, it only built my appreciation for Lawrence even more, that every work of his, either as a budding novelist, or later, when his heart threatened to become more jaded and his sensibilities bruised by a life of penury and hardship, never extinguishes his ever-burning flame of kindled desire and satiation.

When Lettie sees George out the door, he takes her hand: “They smiled again at each other, and, with a blind movement, he broke the spell and was gone.”

For his troubles, George marries the wrong woman and eventually slides into alcoholism and suicide. Lettie too marries the wrong brother.

A spell. That’s what it is. Lawrence was under a spell with “An Idyll.” George, the same. Lettie under a spell of passionate yearning from George’s response, and myself from reading all of it.

Taos Elegy

~ Paul Maher Jr. ~ Leave a comment

Sunrise: Sangre de Cristo Mts.
6:30 a.m.

Clouds like tattered rags
squat as furrowed shaman brows
over heights of lava rock and shale,
bested by Spanish conquest of
Don Fernando, yet eternal still
to endure.

A ragged coyote limps across
a field, turns warily eyeing
down Cam Del Paseo Pueblo Norte,
trotting dust into spirit clouds.

Seraphic cherub sits
on marble tombstone,
chubby chin on palm
brooding over a child’s
collection
of toys:

Matchbox cars, toy soldiers
and a plastic dinosaur.

Daughter: Mercedes E. Avila
1920-1945
sleeps like desert doll beneath
wooden frame of fence pickets.
Gopher holes tunnel
a labyrinthine network
around her,
bonding
the
living
with the dead.

Taos, New Mexico
(April 9, 2016)

The rind and the fruit.

~ Paul Maher Jr. ~ Leave a comment

In D.H. Lawrence’s writings, he describes the rind and the fruit as metaphor.

When one peels the rind, therein the fruit is tender, retaining its juices and seeds. Within is life, the bursting seed awaiting implantation into the soil and the redolent waves of the sun nurturing it into budding. The rind merely peels away. It is discarded. It becomes mold in the earth.

Lawrence writes of the rind in Women In Love after Anna and Will marry. They enjoy honeymoon bliss in a little cottage, absorbed in each other. All is soothing and complacent to compassion. They are, for lack of a better word, complete. Will is born anew:

“He surveyed the rind of the world: houses factories, trams, the discarded rind; people scurrying about, work going on, all on the discarded surface. An earthquake (the marriage) had burst it all from the inside. It was as if the surface of the world had been broken away entirely: Ilkeston, streets, church, people, work, rule-of-the-day, all intact; and yet peeled away into unreality, leaving here exposed the inside, the reality; one’s own being, strange feelings and passions and yearnings and beliefs and aspirations, suddenly become present, revealed to the permanent bedrock, knitted one rock with the woman one loved.”

As Will slips into blissful dreamland, Anna plans a tea-party which throws Will into a tizzy.

“The wonder was going to pass away again. All the love, the magnificent new order was going to be lost, she would forfeit it all for the outside things. She would admit the outside world again, she would throw away the living fruit for the ostensible rind. He began to hate this in her.”

This reveals the differences between the two. She longs for outside things, the rind; he, for the living fruit that is them. It is not the tea-party per se that becomes the issue, but that the trifling matter becomes portentous of their future.

Lawrence’s metaphor of the rind is a tool for his philosophy.

“This goes on within the rind. But the rind remains permanent, falsely absolute, my false absolute knowledge of good and evil. Till the work of corruption is finished; then the rind also, the public form, the civilization, the established consciousness of mankind disappears as well in the mouth of the worm, taken unutterably asunder by the hands of the angels of separation. It ceases to be, all the civilization and all the consciousness, it passes utterly away, a temporary cohesion in the flux. It was this, this rind, this persistent temporary cohesion, that was evil, that alone was evil. And it destroys us all before itself is destroyed.”

Lawrence’s “rind” is the origin of evil. It is the hope one settles for after glimpsing the rainbow, but instead takes refuge in the “rind of the world.”

Whatever form the rind appears, it must be dismantled or diminished in order to reach the fruit of the matter.

“It became at last,” writes Lawrence, “a collective activity, a war, when, within the great rind of virtue we thresh destruction further and further, till our whole civilization is like a great rind full of corruption, o breaking down, a mere shell threatened with collapse upon itself.”

Then …

“And the road of corruption leads back to one’s eternity.”

Lawrence indulges in the fruit, where the wet pulp and soft seeds are rapacious with the sweet and bitter pulp of destiny and promulgation.

It is in his poem, “Pomegranate” that he declares:

You tell me I am wrong.
Who are you, who is anybody to tell me I am wrong?
I am not wrong.

The fleshly seeds of the pomegranate are matters of truth that remain obstinate in the light of falsity.

Or when Lawrence writes in “Figs”:

Folded upon itself, and secret unutterable,
And milky-sapped, sap that curdles milk and makes ricotta,
Sap that smells strange on your fingers, that even goats won’t taste it ;
Folded upon itself, enclosed like any Mohammedan woman,
Its nakedness all within-walls, its flowering forever unseen,
One small way of access only, and this close-curtained from the light ;
Fig, fruit of the female mystery, covert and inward,
Mediterranean fruit, with your covert nakedness,
Where everything happens invisible, flowering and fertilization, and fruiting
In the inwardness of your you, that eye will never see
Till it’s finished, and you’re over-ripe, and you burst to give up your ghost.

The cloying sweetness, its feminine essence overpowers the senses. It is all that it should be. The fruit is declarative and profound. We are righted by its righteousness and journey. The fig’s rind is peeled away and the pulp opens up sweetly with its ferment. It rewards the tongue with its truth. It rewards the soil with its seed.

The crux of the matter lies in the fruit, not the rind. The rind is the world, that binding shell that colludes the real fruit of the matter. It is rioting in Charlottesville, it is nukes in North Korea, it is the pettiness of everyday squabbles, and earthly battles we pursue instead of the living fruit of who we are and what we contain. It is this Lawrence warns of … where “the tiger rises supreme, the last brindled flame upon the darkness; the deer melts away, a bloodstained shadow received into the utter pallor of light; each having leapt forward into eternity, at opposite extremes.”

What is your rind? What is your fruit?

The Sons of Anak: Henry David Thoreau and John Brown

~ Paul Maher Jr. ~ Leave a comment

The Sons of Anak

Concord, Massachusetts – Fall 1859

“It is only when we forget all our learning that we begin to know.”
— Journal, October 4, 1859

On September 5, 1859, Concord was seasonably cool after strong winds (those that pelted the fifty-six-year-old Emerson’s yard with unripe pears),[1] prevailed two days previous. Green urgent sprouts of corn emerged from Concord’s fertile loam and pumpkins, “yellow and yellowing,” blazed the earth creating what Thoreau described as a “genuine New England scene.”[2]

On this day, Thoreau sauntered through the Acton woods searching for a millstone suitable for crushing plumbago into the fine powder he sold to electrotyping firms. (An advertisement in local newspapers of the day states: “PLUMBAGO Prepared EXPRESSLY FOR ELECTROTYPING by JOHN THOREAU, PENCIL MAKER, CONCORD MASS.”) The business was a responsibility inherited (along with the lead mill) solely by Thoreau after the passing of John Sr. in February 1859. Within the first weeks of that year, Thoreau had initiated a period that would begin and end with the presence of death, that of his father and, in December, a distant acquaintance named John Brown.

Read the rest of my new essay on Henry David Thoreau at EMPTY MIRROR.