I'm going to miss the little guy. Started this book in October of 2010. Then, after fits and starts (it's not a book one reads wall-to-wall), I moved it to my kitchen, just below the cookbooks.
Every time The Boston Globe was late -- and trust me, adult drivers are nowhere near as trusty as the boys on bikes of old -- I pulled out Thoreau's annotated journals and had breakfast with Henry.
This morning, due to the snowstorm, the Globe was late again. As usual.
Henry developed a cough. It dragged on. His entries, in the end, were no longer dated and sporadic at best. He left for Minnesota, of all places, in hopes of a cure. It did not work.
Finally, in May of '62, at the gentle age of 44, Henry David Thoreau said his last words ("Moose. Indian," allegedly) and gave up the ghost. His last entry was dated 3 November of 1861. At least he missed the Uncivil War.
Thoreau was quite the scientist. And he had more Common Sense than Thomas Paine could ever hope to find. As an antidote to materialism and capitalism, he cannot be bested. If you're sick to death of "stuff," here's your man. His "stuff" grows outside and is ill-considered and treated by man (unless there's money to be had).
Guest appearances by Ralph, Waldo, and Emerson. Also Emerson's son, Edward. And Wisdom, which is twitchy about cameos.
So up it goes to my study again. Back on the bookshelf with friends, where I will consult it now and again when I need a dose or just before I ride my bike Concord way for a Transcendental fix.
Moose.
Indian.
Simplicity.
Thanks....