As a poet, philosopher, and naturalist,
Henry David Thoreau
had, and continues to have, a tremendous impact on well-off college kids who wish to dabble in the low-risk non-comformity game and grow unflattering facial hair. His works have inspired countless well-meaning souls to cast off the shackles of society and appreciate the simple pleasures of life -- such as Toyota Priuses, Whole Foods-brand hummus, and comfortable Birkenstocks.
On weekends, his many of his acolytes can be found puttering around the shores of Walden Pond in Concord, two towns over from Woburn. There they can engage in rapt contemplation of their spiritual father and connect with the natural beauty he so eloquently expounded upon...before driving back to their McMansions and luxury condominiums. (The fields and forests that used to occupy those spaces should have gotten better publicists, I suppose.)
Me? I'm more of an
Albert Camus guy, if you hadn't already guessed. Apart from the flicker of kinship I feel for a fellow local with a penchant for hyper-wordiness, I've never understood the allure of Thoreau's work, none of which manages to exceed the profundity of his sublime deathbead pronouncement, "Moose. Indian."
However mean your life is...Spoken like a true overprivileged armchair philosopher....
When my brother was down in Albuquerque doing geological field work, he went to catch Star Wars at a local theater. The kid behind the ticket counter couldn't figure out what movie my brother wanted to see. Weird, huh?
It sounds perfectly clear to me, so the problem must reside with you rhotic-dependent types.
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