in Thoreau’s Journal:
I feel sometimes as if I could say to my friends— My friends I am aware how I have outraged you how I have seemingly preferred hate to love—seemingly treated others kindly & you unkindly—sedulously concealed my love—& sooner or later expressed all and more than all my hate— I can imagine how I might utter something like this in some moment never to be realized— But let me say frankly that at the same time I feel it may be with too little regret — That I am under an awful necessity to be what I am. If the truth were down, which I do not know, I have no concern with those friends whom I misunderstood or who misunderstood me….
Sunlight on pine needles is an event of a winter day.
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