It’s a little dangerous to write a review of a classic book—what can one say that hasn’t been said before? In the case of Walden, I have particularly harsh competition; E.B. White’s review is not only relatively recent, but also freely available. Nevertheless, I must come to grips with my thoughts by wrestling them into words.

For about two years, Henry David Thoreau lived in the woods around Walden Pond, near Concord, Massachusetts, in a house he built with his own hands. He later selected and edited certain passages from his journal from the same time period, publishing them as Walden; or Life in the Woods. I cannot put his reasons better than he can:¹

I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practise resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion.

The Marrow #

Let’s not waste any time—Thoreau went to the woods to discover “the essential facts of life.” What are they?

I confess I reached the end of Walden feeling like I had an answer, but unable to articulate it. I could certainly express what the answer is not—Thoreau has plenty to say about what is not essential.

Tradition is not essential. (“What old people say you cannot do you try and find you can.”)

Nor fashion. (“The head monkey in Paris puts on a traveller’s cap, and all the monkeys in America do the same.”)

Not luxury, a well-furnished house, or a productive farm. (“[E]ndeavoring 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.”)

Not public monuments (“Most of the stone a nation hammers goes towards its tomb only.”), nor trade. (“I have since learned that trade curses everything it handles; and though you trade in messages from heaven, the whole curse of trade attaches to the business.”)

Not even companionship (“The man who goes alone can start to-day; but he who travels with another must wait until that other is ready”) nor philanthropy (“If I knew for a certainty that a man was coming to my house with the conscious design of doing me good, I should run for my life”), nor religion (“…most men… have somewhat hastily concluded that it is the chief end of man to ‘glorify God and enjoy him forever.’”) come in for a good word.

What is left to us? Thoreau refuses to wholeheartedly recommend even his own life in the woods: “I would not have any one adopt my mode of living on any account, for beside that before he has fairly learned it I may have found out another for myself, I desire that there may be as many different persons in the world as possible; but I would have each one be very careful to find out and pursue his own way, and not his father’s or his mother’s or his neighbor’s instead.”

Alas, there are no firm affirmative answers to be found in Walden, only negatives. Thoreau does offer transcendent descriptions of nature, where for all the world you feel that you have grasped some truth… but it slips away when you try to pin it down. Thoreau is relentlessly critical of society and his reader as well (White calls him a “hairshirt”), but cannot offer a true answer, only gestures towards it.

And yet—despite Thoreau’s borderline misanthropy—Walden’s influence has echoed down the years. Why? Of course, Thoreau can turn a phrase like few other authors; cutting criticism neatly phrased sticks in one’s mind. But most importantly, his critique rings true. Even the most skeptical reader will admit a kernel of truth to his observations, but I think most readers are cut to the quick. For a classically-minded reader, Thoreau will remind them of Socrates’ gadfly; I think Thoreau’s insistence on personal simplicity and ascetic habits mean that White’s description of “hairshirt” is even more accurate. Thoreau himself preferred a different simile: “I do not propose to write an ode to dejection, but to brag as lustily as chanticleer in the morning, standing on his roost, if only to wake my neighbors up.”

Whether you are awakened, stung, or penitent, Thoreau is hard to ignore.

Meat on the Bones #

Don’t let me give you the impression that Walden can be distilled so neatly.

It shows its origins as Thoreau’s journal very clearly—less a carefully built edifice and more the results of a prospector panning for gold. Self-contained flakes of wisdom are scattered about for the reader to admire. It is only halfheartedly divided into sections that correspond to the seasons—summer and fall blend into other subjects, while winter and spring are in sharp relief. Slight inconsistencies and oddities abound.

Those unimpressed with Thoreau’s observations usually object to those inconsistencies, especially in his method of living. He boasts of his self-reliance and solitude, yet it’s clear that he was still reliant on the town of Concord for materials (he bought a shanty for boards and nails), assistance (he did not raise his house on his own), and company (he received regular visitors and went into town regularly enough as well). Some critics decry his misanthropy—fairly, as far as I’m concerned—and others point out that living alone in woods is quite all right for a reasonably well-to-do, unattached, and healthy man in his late-20s, but less feasible for those who have responsibilities to their families, a lack of capital, or bodily limitations. All true, as far as they go; but the same earlier lamented lack of universal answers saves Thoreau from his most stringent critics. He does not claim that everyone should follow his example, and ruefully admits that his advice is perhaps best suited for poor students: “I trust that none will stretch the seams in putting on the coat, for it may do good service to him whom it fits.”

An example of Thoreau’s uncertainty: his digression on the appropriate diet. As ever, he recommends simplicity—just water, no tea or coffee, bread with no yeast or butter, and perhaps no meat. He suggests that an advanced humanity will stop eating animals and relays his own misgivings about hunting and fishing. But he continues to eat meat himself, and recommends that boys be taught to hunt in their youth (that they should give it up as adults). Thoreau gestures in a direction, but cannot bring himself to carry out his claim to its end.

Similarly, even amidst his denunciation of trade and love of money, Thoreau allows that commerce has its place, is even noble in its own way: “It does not clasp its hands and pray to Jupiter. I see these men every day go about their business with courage and content… whose courage does not go to rest so early, who go to sleep only when the storm sleeps or when the sinews of their iron steed are frozen.”

Readers may also vary in their reaction to Thoreau’s descriptions of his environment, where he sojourns as a naturalist, surveyor, and mystic. Sometimes his descriptions are clinical—as when he carefully notes the depth of Walden Pond. Other times they are humorous or biting—there is a positively Napoleonic ant battle, or Thoreau’s pursuit of a loon across Walden pond. And of course they can also be transfigurative. I confess I cannot consistently make sense of them, though this is likely more my fault than a flaw in Walden. These digressions are necessary; else the book would be no more than a poor sermon. But I was unable to catch hold of them to my satisfaction, or to understand what I thought of them. Instead, I was left with a vague sense of either wonder or boredom, depending on the specific passage.

Other Lives to Live #

Many classic works discuss themes that will only make sense to readers with the appropriate experience. Walden is the rare work that is more beneficial to a callow reader, the aforementioned poor student. As a child grows into adolescence, only the most oblivious will fail to notice the superficiality of the world around them. Walden is a relief to such a reader, assuring them that their concerns are well-founded and inviting them to find a different way—simplicity, simplicity. The problem with Walden (and many similar works) is that their solutions are either vague or worse than the disease. Their methods result in monomaniacal fanatics or nihilists—consider Catcher in the Rye or Fight Club, whose protagonists cannot find their place in a consumerist society, but also cannot find a suitable solution (opting instead for resignation or self-destruction).

Thoreau could fall into the same trap—insisting that all must live as simply as he did, living “Spartan-like” in the woods, denying any desire for luxuries like coffee or butter, refusing any attachments to family or friends that could divert them from a simple life. But he provides an escape hatch. Our reader can drink deeply of Walden's stream, but they need not be anchored there---the refreshing effects will remain for a lifetime. You do not have to live in the woods—armed with a knowledge of what is essential and what is not, you can come to terms with society, mature, acquire familial attachments, and take on responsibilities, but not mistake the decoration for the foundation. After all, Thoreau too left the woods; he “had other lives to live.”