Thoreau's Snake Metaphor

“I saw a striped snake turn into the water, and he lay on the bottom, apparently without inconvenience, as long as I staid there, or more than a quarter of an hour; perhaps because he had not yet fairly come out of the torpid state. It appeared to me that for a like reason men remain in their present low and primitive condition; but if they should feel the influence of the spring of springs arousing them, they would of necessity rise to a higher and more ethereal life.” (Henry David Thoreau, “Economy,” Norton Anthology of American Literature, p. 1002)

In “Economy,” Thoreau not only discusses the practical aspects of a man’s life, but also his spiritual state. In the passage above, he uses the metaphor of the striped snake to warn of man’s current degradation, while simultaneously offering hope for a future spiritual awakening. It is interesting to note that the animal he chooses is a snake, hinting at the form adopted by Satan when he tricked Eve in the Book of Genesis. In the Bible, the snake represented man’s greatest downfall: the quest for knowledge that led, ultimately, to the creation of modern civilization (and the capitalism and materialism that goes along with it). In Thoreau’s metaphor, the snake seems to represent man’s state since his exile from the Garden of Eden — asleep, languid, and not aware of the potential to find inspiration and simplicity in Nature.

Thoreau ironically refers to this state as “low” and “primitive,” even though it is a result of man’s modern society and the labor economy of America at the time of Thoreau’s writing. Although many would consider this society to be civilized and advanced, Thoreau views it as backward: man should only work for himself, not for others, and he should spend the time that he is not working in pursuit of independent thought and spiritual betterment, not in squandering one’s money on the latest fashions or luxuries.

A man who has not transcended the materiality of the world is thus considered to be “torpid” — that is, sluggish and bogged down in conventions. The solution, Thoreau posits, is for such men to experience the “spring of springs.” Here, he calls attention to the season often thought of as a time of awakening, both in terms of the flowers that bloom during the spring months and in a literary sense (e.g., Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales begins in the spring, a time of rebirth and a time to go on spiritual journeys). Moreover, the spring represents emersing oneself in Nature — or, at least, in the solitude and contemplation that transcendentalists found in natural settings.

Although Thoreau advocates going one’s own way, he draws on these traditional notions of spring as a time of vitality. When man leaves behind his materialism, he awakens to this higher world of self-realization, critical thought, and spiritual goodness shared by all humans at their core. Although Thoreau’s tone can sometimes be abrasive and jarring, it is sometimes also beautiful, with vivid imagery and hints at the lessons than man can learn if only he can shake off his complacency and view the world from a different perspective, like a snake shedding its old skin for something new.

Short Blog Break

I'm taking a very short break from working on my final Frankenstein paper to post today's Walt Disney World fact of the day. I just finished writing about Shelley's comparison of Victor Frankenstein to Satan from Milton's Paradise Lost, and I'm now poised to describe her second comparison: Frankenstein and Prometheus of Greek myth, a titan who is said to have created humans from clay and who gave fire to his humans despite Zeus' instructions to the contrary. That discussion will encompass the responsibility of the creator and the overstepping of one's bonds as a means of destruction, supporting my argument that Shelley depicts Frankenstein's fall as a warning against secretive science and the quest for power.

Here is today's fact: "Walt Disney World employs more than 62,000 people, including at least 58,000 cast members. That's more than twice the number of employees at the Pentagon (23,000), one of the world's largest office complexes. WDW is, in fact, the largest single-site employer in the United States."

And here's a photo for today, to keep things colorful. This is from a recent trip that Todd and I took to the NY Botanical Gardens. We might go back on Saturday; if we do, I'll post more photos:

Literary Lists

I've been keeping tabs on Penguin Books USA through Twitter lately -- and not just because I really, really, really want to work or intern there. There are some pretty interesting posts about up and coming authors, interviews, and (obviously) books. And I just read that Penguin has released a list of the top 10, reader-chosen must-read classic books.

Anyone who knows me knows that I'm skeptical as to why the classics are classics. The writing is typically dense and inaccessible and the stories tend to revolve around mundane daily matters. I've read books like Jane Eyre, Pride and Prejudice, and Romeo and Juliet (all of which are on the reader-chosen list), and I just don't get what's so overwhelmingly great about them. I'd take a modern, experimental read like Shane Jones' simultaneously whimsical and somber novel, Light Boxes, over the classics any day. 

Then again, I did enjoy Little Women (on the list, thankfully) a lot when I was younger, so maybe I'm just erecting a double standard here. I checked last year's list, not chosen by readers, which included Thoreau's Walden and Steinbeck's Of Mice and Men, two books I did enjoy. I'm sad to see that no one thought to include A Separate Peace by John Knowles, which everyone knows is one of my favorite and most-referenced books of all time.

What do you think about the reader-created list? I'm tempted to make my own list of top ten not-just-classics that every person should read, so maybe I'll ruminate on that and get back to you with it.

Visual Arts Aren't Just Digital

Considering I was just posting about reading and writing and about Jonathan Safran Foer, check out this video about his newest book, "Tree of Codes," which is actually a story literally formed by cutting out sections from Bruno Shulz' "Street of Crocodiles."

Active Reading

I interviewed Tim O'Brien for an article I wrote sometime earlier this year. Most famously, he wrote "The Things they Carried," the story of a group of army grunts in Vietnam. I've read every single book he's ever written, and he's always been my favorite writer. So of course, when I interviewed him, I had to ask him about writing, and he told me to always "read like a writer," asking myself why I liked something, and how it moved me.

I just finished reading "Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close" by Jonathan Safran Foer. What started as an affinity for the movie "Everything is Illuminated" (mostly because Gogol Bordello's Eugene Hutz had a leading role), has developed into a deep respect and admiration for Safran Foer, both as a writer and as a reader. 

As a writer, I've been paying attention to the way he manipulates style to get across the voice and tone of his character. I want to try and develop my own style and voice in my own works. It makes me want to write more. As a reader, I appreciate the always-moving, ever-developing story and the way it drew me in and didn't let me go until I had finished the entire novel, almost without realizing it.

Tim O'Brien will always be my favorite author, but Jonathan Safran Foer definitely comes close, and I highly recommend reading his books. Find your own way to read it, whether it's as a reader, as a writer, or as something else, something that only you can define. 

"What about little microphones? What if everyone swallowed them, and they played the sounds of our hearts through little speakers, which could be in the pouches of our overalls?" 

- Jonathan Safran Foer, "Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close", page 1.