Thoreau is such a moralistic prick.

As a transcendentalist myself, I can admire Thoreau’s commitment to the bit. But I feel that in the process of trying to reduce life down to its essential parts, he’s almost completely missed the point of his own philosophy: that it exists for imperfect humans. I also sense a little narcissistic flair. He imagines that none among his company are inspired to poetry but him. He makes endless sweeping judgements about how everyone sucks. Maybe his contemporaries were a bit overglued to the endless to-do list of life, but instead of joyfully taking hold of his own desire for mindfulness and simplicity, he takes this opportunity to unleash contemptuous judgement on everyone around him who chooses to sleep on a mattress instead of the ground.

There’s nothing these ancient white men love more than stating their own opinion as though its an oracle. Not to say he isn’t a genius writer…. He’s just a dick. And I laughed out loud hearing his take on England.

“God himself culminates in the present moment”….”grow wild according to thy nature”