Disrespecting iconic American authors

            Ever notice how many of the early American writers had three names? Henry David Thoreau, for example, whom I refer to as Hank Dave as a hedge against pomp. In fact, I’ve nicknamed them all. In the theater of my imagination, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow becomes “Waddie,” and of course there’s Ed Al Poe. (Ignore the unfortunate reference to a contemporary dog food.)

            James Fenimore Cooper becomes familiar as “Fenimore” and Louise May Alcott is Lulu.

         

   I don’t mess with Ralph Waldo “Emo” Emerson (at left) too much because he seems to have my number. When I dropped in on him in Concord in 1845, our imaginary conversation went like this:

            ALAN – Do you like Thoreau personally?

            EMO – Sure. He and I both write about nature, which he believes he invented.

            ALAN – You mean Walden?

            EMO – Yeah. You realize he comes to my house once a week for a good meal and to do laundry?

            ALAN – I didn’t realize that.

            EMO – Still, he evinces self-reliance to a laudable extent. Convention is not his master.

            ALAN – Or yours?

            EMO – I hope not. He who would be a man must be a non-conformist.

            ALAN – Do you seek out your own means of non-conformity?

            EMO – No. It’s just that I try not to be slavishly consistent in anything.

            ALAN  - A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds?

            EMO – Yeah I said that.

            ALAN – Do you still believe it?

            EMO – Look, I’d had a few drinks, okay? I’m just saying that society is in conspiracy against the manhood of every one of its members; you, me, Thoreau, all of us. We’re all misunderstood.

            ALAN – And that’s a good thing?

            EMO – It’s necessary. Luther and Copernicus and Galileo and Newton – all misunderstood, as was Jesus. To be great is to be misunderstood.

            ALAN – It’s necessary, but surely not sufficient?

            EMO – That’s true. By the way, if you see Thoreau, tell him he forgot his socks.

•••••

            Fast forward to present. If this were a textbook it would be time for those inane Questions for Discussion that have nothing to do with the material that’s gone before. Like “What was on Emerson’s mind when he wrote ‘Nature’?” How the devil do I know? I’m just saying that your mind is something for which to be thankful. It can be used well or badly, or brilliantly, as you and I know. And Emerson knew.

            So, anyway, Happy Thanksgiving.