"Walden" and Transcendental Austerity

Henry David Thoreau. The original neckbeard (no really, look at him). Well not by modern standards I suppose. He did not spend his time chugging Mountain Dew and watching a children's cartoon about magical ponies. But he was renowned as an ascetic, a pseudo-anarchist, and more famously, the writer of works that inspired groans in your sophomore English class.

Many of us suffered through the tribulations of attempting to interpret Thoreau's platitudes about transcendentalism. His book Walden is the pillar of transcendentalist thought and a strong moral argument for the benefits of living a life of austerity, yet his style of composition is complex and outdated enough to drive high schoolers to tears of boredom. As a young man, I too was not particularly interested in the tree-hugging notions of a man who lived alone in a van down by the river, or shack down by the pond I mean. Now, years later, as still a young man by all accounts, albeit one with slightly more life experience and a greater fondness for literature, I decided to reread Walden.

Walden Pond

Two years ago, in the summer of 2018, I was working in landscaping in Boston. Many of the projects I worked on were outside of the city, in neighboring towns. One such town was Concord. After a long, and particularly hot day, of dirt-covered manual labor, my boss and I drove over to Walden Pond to cool off. Driving past signs announcing our arrival, my subconscious quickly sparked alive and reminded me of the importance of this place. While I would have loved to visit the solitary cabin of Thoreau's fame, I was reluctant to mention my literary enthusiasm to my friend who would most likely have sneered at my ardor.

Thus we drove down to the pond itself, shed our sweat-soaked garments, and sprinted down into the cool fresh-water drink. Immediately, I was struck at my lack of buoyancy. As someone who grew up on the coast, I was well acquainted with spending time in saltwater where one can float with relative ease. Yet now, here in Walden Pond, I felt myself sinking like an anchor (one weighed down by craft beer). Remedying the situation by climbing onto a small dock, I scoped out the area surrounding us. The calm and serenity of the land is astonishing. It is little surprise that Thoreau so thoroughly enjoyed his time there and found the inspiration for his writings.

Years later, having once again read Walden, I find a yearning to return to the pond. This time armed with the knowledge of Thoreau and the truer appreciation of nature.

Walden; or, Life in the Woods

A compelling tale of one man's desire to live a remote life, far and away from his countrymen in the tranquil embrace of nature, while speaking on the boons of living a life of austerity, Walden is more relevant today than it was at its birth. Our society (at the risk of getting too preachy) is permanently tied to technology, to a constant flow of information, and to material gains. Far too seldom do we forego our phones and the confines of modernity. Far too infrequently do we venture off into the woods for two years at a time (I'm kidding, a stroll through the forest is adequate enough).

Melding the story of his time spent living in the woods by Walden Pond, going into detail about the construction of his cabin, his farming endeavors, and daily life, with philosophical reflections on self-reliance and austerity, Walden is a masterpiece. Strewn with his own poems and utilizing both scholarly colorful composition alongside scientific terms, Thoreau's writing style may be difficult for the novice reader but is pleasantly vivid for those with enough experience. His college education shines through in his references to the classics and ancients. Each chapter expresses Thoreau's contemplations on solitary life amongst nature while recounting his day-to-day life as a somewhat hermit.

For those who feel overwhelmed with constant hustle and bustle of modern life, Walden is a brilliant read that will inspire you to slip the chains of contemporary society for the freedom of life outdoors. Find the motivation to go outside, to take a stroll through the woods, and breath the fresh air around you.

A Life of Austerity

Disclaimer: I'm about to get real pretentious here.

A key principle of Walden, of Thoreau's beliefs, and of transcendentalism is general is austerity, simpler life. Part of me is enthusiastic about this. Drop your Balenciaga bag, take off your Supreme hoodie, leave your luxurious city apartment, stop eating at expensive Michelin restaurants, and live a more somber life. Live chastely, eat meagerly, forego luxury. These are the fundamentals that Thoreau and Emerson espouse.

And they are not wrong. As I said before, we are obsessed with material possessions. The newest phones, the nicest clothes, the richest foods. Celebrities like the Kardashians whose fame is focalized solely on their wealth are repugnant. They offer little in the way of sophistication and culture, instead representing a perverse path of unadulterated capitalism where the supply is fake tits and overly filtered Instagram pics and the demand is the unwashed masses gnawing at the bit to achieve a modicum of that lifestyle (pompous, I know). We should not strive to be like them says Thoreau. Put down your phone and pick up a hoe (the farming implement...). Leave the expensive makeup and paint yourself in dirt. Breath in not the fumes of lavish perfume, but the odors of the pitch of pine trees.

So how can I stand here and advocate such concepts? I who push for using colognes, for eating well, for wearing nice clothes. Because we need balance. 

Thoreau was a pescatarian who barely ate meat, likening it to barbarism. He defended a diet of simplicity; one of rural sturdiness, even devoting a whole chapter to his bean farming efforts. Yet meat is how we as a species evolved to where we are today. Should you be eating bacon wrapped filet mignon topped with foie gras for every meal? Hell no. But don't feel you need to eat plain gruel and vegetables everyday like some hairshirt act of dietary asceticism. Eat a burger here and there if you like, just remember to top it with lettuce and tomato.

In the same chapter where hunting and the eating of meat is denounced, Thoreau campaigns for chastity and teetotalism. Again he is not terribly wrong. A life rife with too much of a good thing quickly becomes a bad thing. But is a life totally devoid of meat, sex, and booze really a life worth living?

(A man goes to doctor and says "Doc, do you think I will live another 50 years?" The doctor asks him how old he is now to which he responds that he is 40. "Well," says the doctor, "tell me about your vices."
"Do you smoke?" "Oh never, I've never had a cigarette in my life. I don't touch tobacco at all."
"Do you drink?" "Not at all, I'm a teetotaler. Never had a sip of beer or liquor in my life."

"Any drugs?" "Of course not! I've never tried them and certainly don't intend to."

"How about sex?" "Not for me. I live a life of chastity."

"Gambling?" "Can't stand. Why would I want to waste my money?"

"No other vices then?" "None whatsoever."
"Well then why would you want to live another 50 years?")

We as a society do not need to live a completely Spartan life like Thoreau did. We do not need to forego our social obligations and move deep into the forest to expand our minds like bark and leaf clad hermits. But allowing a sense of austerity, of minimalism into our lives is beneficial. If you feel you need to spend hundreds or thousands of dollars on clothing and jewelry and shoes and purses, the problem is not in the fashion you adhere to, but inside of you. Instead of life in the woods, perhaps just a walk in the woods will suffice.