I have been reading Walden and a few other essays by Henry David Thoreau, on my palm pilot. Reading it on my palm means that I don’t often have time to read more than what would be one or two pages at a time. The advantage to this is that it affords me plenty of time to think about what I have read. For Thoreau, this is a big advantage. The down side is that it is also easy to forget what I have read. This is much more of a problem with short stories than for essays. There is also less to think about when reading a short story. Recently I have been reading Walking, Reading, and Sounds by Thoreau, and All Tomorrow’s Parties by William Gibson. As I was thinking about this, it came to me that there probably aren’t many authors more dissimilar then Thoreau and Gibson. As I thought about it more, however, I realized that they do have at least one thing in common. Both seem concerned about the dehumanizing effect of technology. For this and other reasons, they complement each other well, at least in my mind. But that’s not what I wish to write about today.

Thoreau extols the virtues of wild nature as being the only true pleasure, and only real virtue. Naturally this causes one to wonder, and I realized that there seems bred into me an inability to simply enjoy nature. Frequently I have desired to retire to some semi-secluded place and sit for an hour or two. There I thought I would perhaps write or, preferably, contemplate some facet of our universe without the encumbrance of human company. I have always been thwarted in my desire, however, by some unwelcome and undesired restlessness. Some incomprehensible need, perhaps to be “productive”. I seem to be incapable of relaxing, unless it is doing something truly unproductive such as watching a movie, or playing video games. Gibson seems full of characters with similar handicaps. Never it seems can I spend time in introspection. Surely this must be the work of that being whose design is our eternal unrest.

To illustrate the depth of my deficiency I will relate one of many similar stories. Not long ago, I was walking to campus to do a few things on a Saturday. One of my designs was to read a book, All Tomorrow’s Parties in fact. It was a gorgeous morning, with birds singing in the trees, and all that. I came to some benches on the way to my office, so I sat down to enjoy reading in the fresh air. Notice that I didn’t sit down to enjoy the fresh air itself, but rather to enjoy reading Gibson—not a particularly contemplative pleasure. I was able to read one short chapter after which I had to leave. I could not, and I tried at the time, identify why I needed to leave. I just couldn’t stay. The weather was enjoyable, the book as well, and I didn’t want to leave, but I simply had to get indoors. Some compulsion that I can’t begin to understand. I have had it for as long as I can remember.

This Tuesday, I came as close as I have probably ever come to enjoying nature. My family took a walk from the Winterton house, where we were staying, to the river. We didn’t actually make it to the river because of a large ditch in the way. When we reached the ditch, we stopped to rest for a while. I sat with my back to the sun, hunched over for some quite time. It was rather enjoyable, since I had Thoreau’s words to contemplate and my family made little noise. I maintained this position for some time after they had started back, hoping that somehow this would be my long sought chance to bask in nature’s glory. Apparently afraid that I had fallen asleep, it wasn’t long before my family summoned me, leaving me no choice but to embark on the return journey. I was left with nothing more than a taste of Thoreau’s joy. And joy it must have been.

I have determined that enjoyment is by its very nature, a solitary affair. One cannot bask in anything while burdened with the presence of another human. When another is present, one must then be conscious of, and responsive to, the others needs. To do otherwise risks being a poor companion. Moreover, one cannot comment to another on the beauty of ones environs, for in doing so, one inevitably strips the situation of all the merit which was the original object of comment. In the utterance of praise, the object of esteem is irrevocably destroyed. It takes a true master to be able to capture some of the joy on paper, or to express it to others. And perhaps no less a talent to appreciate such an exposition.

Perhaps someday I will be able to understand what prevents me from enjoying nature, or even to overcome it.