The primitive human in me doesn’t want to be sitting here at a keyboard. It wants to be gathering wood or picking berries. If I must tell stories, let it be near a fire, sung as a poem, or pounded out on a drum.
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In life as in the library — may the sweetest, ripest fruit always be just out of reach.
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A cloudy morning for the eclipse. But it did grow much darker.
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Read the fifty-seventh chapter of Middlemarch.
Thoreau’s journal, March 5, 1854. Nut Meadow Brook.
Channing, talking with Minott the other day about his health, said, “I suppose you’d like to die now.” “No,” said Minott, “I’ve toughed it through the winter, and I want to stay and hear the bluebirds once more.”
. . .
It grew colder before I left. I saw some crystals beginning to shoot on the pools between the tussocks, shaped like feathers or fan-coral. — the most delicate I ever saw. Thus even ice begins with crystal leaves, and birds’ feathers and wings are leaves, and trees and rivers with intervening earth are vast leaves.
October 14, 2023.
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[ 1897 ]
Categories: If It Had A Name
Tags: Berries, Bluebirds, Clouds, Cold, Death, Drums, Earth, Feathers, Fire, Firelight, Fruit, George Eliot, Ice, Journals, Leaves, Libraries, Life, Middlemarch, Nut Meadow Brook, Poetry, Rivers, Singing, Stories, Thoreau, Trees, Typing, Wings, Winter, Wood
William Michaelian 