Skip to main content

After reading The Blithedale Romance

All my senses are acute. As the morning sunlight washed over me, and I understood the whole narrative after a month or so of reading, it came upon me to the resolution of my whole perverse nature. One of the questions I have so often asked myself, with the attitude of heartbreak between Romeo and Juliet, or some epic lost love, is why I did not choose the thing that blazes over my nature, with which I have absolute sympathy, as the center of my life. The study of literature, the understanding of human nature, which obsesses me at all times.

As I thought of what I really do, I was thrilled with the irony and revelation that I chose a profession that could not touch my heart, nor give me even the remotest satisfaction, nor do that which is my whole aim, giving beauty to the world. A scientist has never and will never give beauty to the world. He exists like a worm beneath a rock. Contributing something, usefulness, but beauty, never, and for someone with my mind, I think it a terrific waste to trouble oneself over the human form. To preserve our frail forms as if there was nothing more. To harness the powers of the earth for our own propagation. Those who would do it and profit from such operation are a waste to me-- even myself.

It is because of my deepest sympathy to something more that I chose the most wasteful and meaningless of professions. Every other profession I think of does yield beauty to the world in some form or other, but not science.

I knew, and I dabbled dangerously, in English classes. In my deepest heart I knew I could not present myself to professors as a vessel to be filled with their good knowledge, that I can trust no mind other than my own with regard to this study. Independent, I may stumble, but my ideas are my own, and I am never expected to take on another's belief. I choose the forces that shape my mind. I might miss things along the way, but I learned so soon what unreliable narrators can do in the real world, that I could not risk it.

This is the perversity of my existence, that the ideas that come forth in my writing be entirely of my own will, eeked out of my free time, not for profit or recognition in the usual sense, and that if I fail to do this, I will have created no beauty in the world, because what I do for a living is absolutely meaningless.

This is, anyway, how I feel after reading The Blithedale Romance that chills me, because I have enough experience to be chilled, and also thrills me, because I do have a purpose, when so many in the world don't, and mourn that lack.

Popular posts from this blog

The secret to a happy home

I finished Marion Harland's guide tonight and I wonder ceaselessly at two things. 1. She is so down on America! Even more than I am. She complains of things in which I am so well-steeped I could not see them for what they were. In particular, American style and cookery. It is true that our food, which we count as so much more generous in portion than the overseas counterpart, is as coarse and indecorous as it is plentiful, but as an American woman I cast up my hands and declare I would rather spend my time on something else. She makes an interesting point about American women's fashions. In France women wear what looks good on them, and in America women wears what comes off the manufacturing line in the latest style. It is very conformist, and I have to admit I feel it in myself, for I would be embarrassed to wear something that is "out" even if it flattered me better. 2. Harland's other point I feel clearly from last night's experiences. I looked in my journ...

Helen Keller

Reading this Women of Influence book is causing me to remember another of my great childhood loves -- "The Miracle Worker," the story of Anne Sullivan and Helen Keller. It was Anne Sullivan I really loved, and still love -- it always made me heartsick to think of her sacrifice, devoting every waking minute to another human being, with almost no life left to herself, until she died in old age, and Helen Keller required another translator. But God -- she must have known it -- that's the best way to live -- it is to have every moment of your life swallowed in supreme goodness and satisfaction. No wonder I loved her, and no longer do I feel sorry for her -- I envy her. I thought of her today perhaps because when I was around eight or nine I grew aware that she and I shared the same initials "AS." Today is the first day that I am Amanda Monteleone at work, and I have written my initials "AM" dozens of times already. It's strange, but the satisfaction of...

Sprouts

Sprouts Originally uploaded by ladyhildegarde . I am getting sprouts. Hopefully they are carnations. It is such a beautiful spring day. It's good I'm taking the chance to come outside: I have craved a moment to reflect on something beautiful.