that represent his past life—razors, knives, forks, Bibles, bottles of rum, coins, to mention a few of them (47). To feel secure, Crusoe regularly makes lists and inventories of the objects that he owns, as if private property was something that brought that sense of home. This gesture may be reminiscent of the imposition of culture and traditions that is at the core of the colonial gesture.

## 2.2 The motif of the circle: home as matrix, enclosure and security

Crusoe, who, in the incipit, said that he “had not been bred to any trade” (5) turns out to be in turn an architect, a carpenter, a builder, a farmer, and there is a rapid gradation from the tent he builds at the beginning to bigger and bigger “houses.” Crusoe is restless on the island and spends his time building various constructions, or, should we say, replicating his former life in a Great Britain characterized by the phenomenon of enclosure, and he does so using a geometrical vocabulary that suggests his mastery and control: “Before I set up my Tent, I drew a half-Circle before the hollow Place, which took in about ten Yards in its semi-Diameter from the Rock and twenty Yards in Diameter, from its Beginning and Ending” (48). The motif of the circle is recurrent in Crusoe’s attempt to domesticate the desert island, as when he says that he “mark’d out a semi-Circle for [his] Encampment” (57). A psychoanalytical reading of this motif might reveal that the circle is a reassuring figure that may bring Crusoe the security of some form of unity and wholeness that he never had, because of the hybridity in which he grew up. The circle can also symbolize the matrix, and by extension home. Crusoe keeps drawing circles or digging holes, such as his cave, which also symbolizes the matrix and the concept of home. Interestingly enough, the cave is a natural hollow place but here Crusoe digs one that is then described as a store of goods in which he accumulates as much as he can, so much actually that he needs to make it bigger and bigger, until it looks like “a general Magazine of all necessary Things” (56). He also erects a barricade to circumscribe an area and create a closed place for himself: “as well as I could, I barricaded myself round with the Chests and Boards that I had brought on Shore, and made a kind of Hut for that Night’s Lodging” (44). He uses furniture that he took on the wreck to recreate a sense
of home, as these chests and boards are metonymies of his previous
life and of Great Britain and civilization. This idea of circumscribing an
area in an open space and of drawing circles to delimit different areas
that Crusoe then owns is a duplication of the phenomenon of enclosure
that developed in England in the eighteenth century, which consisted in
restricting the land to its owner, in appropriating space in order to make
it fruitful and productive economically speaking. Robert P. Marzec defines
an enclosure as

the turning of open, communal land into private property. It involves
the surrounding of that land with barriers designed to close off the
free passage of people and animals. [...] To agricultural theorists,
political scholars, and novelists such as Arthur Young, Jeremy Bentham,
Daniel Defoe and Henry Fielding, enclosures were seen as a great
advancement in farm and land management. They enabled farmers
to increase the productivity of their laborers. The movement was
hailed by the entrepreneurial class as one of the greatest advances
in land development. ("Enclosures" 8)

As Julia Prewitt Brown says, "in building his enclosure, Crusoe replicates
the spaces he has known in the past" (35), which (re-)creates a sense
of home. He gets the impression that he has not left his island of Great
Britain. And he talks a lot about his home and in great detail, which is a
way for him to express the anxiety of his loss and of his "homelessness,"
as Ann-Marie Fallon suggests: "When Defoe writes about the tremendous
anxiety of house building in *Robinson Crusoe*, he is also commenting on
the anxiety of locating home in a colonial context" (51).

Indeed, everything that animated Defoe's imagination was related
to money and economic development: the titles of some of his works—
*An Essay on the South-Sea Trade* (1711), *A General History of Trade*
(1713), *The Complete English Tradesman* (1726) or *A Plan of the English
Commerce* (1728)—give us an idea of how central to his thought trade
was. His representation of space is therefore highly influenced by his
economic perspective. Defoe was the author of at least part of the
*Atlas Maritimus and Commercialis* (1728), whose title, by coordinating a
of home, as these chests and boards are metonymies of his previous
life and of Great Britain and civilization. This idea of circumscribing an
area in an open space and of drawing circles to delimit different areas
that Crusoe then owns is a duplication of the phenomenon of enclosure
that developed in England in the eighteenth century, which consisted in
restricting the land to its owner, in appropriating space in order to make
it fruitful and productive economically speaking. Robert P. Marzec defines
an enclosure as

the turning of open, communal land into private property. It involves
the surrounding of that land with barriers designed to close off the
free passage of people and animals. [...] To agricultural theorists,
political scholars, and novelists such as Arthur Young, Jeremy Bentham,
Daniel Defoe and Henry Fielding, enclosures were seen as a great
advancement in farm and land management. They enabled farmers
to increase the productivity of their laborers. The movement was
hailed by the entrepreneurial class as one of the greatest advances
in land development. ("Enclosures" 8)

As Julia Prewitt Brown says, "in building his enclosure, Crusoe replicates
the spaces he has known in the past" (35), which (re-)creates a sense
of home. He gets the impression that he has not left his island of Great
Britain. And he talks a lot about his home and in great detail, which is a
way for him to express the anxiety of his loss and of his "homelessness,"
as Ann-Marie Fallon suggests: "When Defoe writes about the tremendous
anxiety of house building in *Robinson Crusoe*, he is also commenting on
the anxiety of locating home in a colonial context" (51).

Indeed, everything that animated Defoe's imagination was related
to money and economic development: the titles of some of his works—
*An Essay on the South-Sea Trade* (1711), *A General History of Trade*
(1713), *The Complete English Tradesman* (1726) or *A Plan of the English
Commerce* (1728)—give us an idea of how central to his thought trade
was. His representation of space is therefore highly influenced by his
economic perspective. Defoe was the author of at least part of the
*Atlas Maritimus and Commercialis* (1728), whose title, by coordinating a
geographical term ("Maritimus") and an economic one ("Commercialis") shows how, in Defoe's mind, geography and trade were inseparable. In that colonial context which is characterized by constant displacement for the colonizers and by dispossession or dislocation for the colonized populations, it becomes difficult to talk about "home" as a stable entity. This probably accounts for the fact that Crusoe designates what he calls "home" with a variety of synonyms or quasi-synonyms. A case in point is the famous extract when he discovers a footprint. The passage opens with the enumeration of habits that Crusoe has now that he has been living on the island for quite a while:

> This was also about half Way between my other Habitation and the
> Place where I had laid up my Boat, I generally stayed and lay here in
> my Way thither, for I used frequently to visit my Boat; and I kept all
> Things about or Belonging to her in very good Order. Sometimes I
> went out in her to divert myself. (120-121)

Crusoe has acquired a routine, as can be seen in the three frequency
adverbs ("generally," "frequently," "sometimes") and, like many English
bourgeois of the time, he has got his main home and his second home
(Baridon 71-75), as is epitomized in his mention of his "other Habitation,"
that he calls elsewhere his "Country-House" (81)—as a complement to
his "Sea-Coast-House" (81)—or his "Bower" (81). Interestingly enough, it
is once he has found his country-house that Crusoe calls his sea-coast-
house "home," thus signalling that home is the place where you can go
back to whenever you want: "it was the first Night I had lain from Home.
[....] I came Home; so I must now call my Tent and my Cave" (80). It also
suggests that Crusoe's aggrandisement of his "estate" on the island gives
him an enhanced sense of home. One can also notice the abundance of
possessive adjectives that confirms his wish to own everything on the
island. But as the passage unfolds and as he discovers the presence of
one single footprint in the sand, he gets more and more afraid, and as
a response to his tremendous fear (of the Devil, of savage animals, of
cannibals), the lexis used to talk about his habitation evolves and becomes
more and more protectionist and imperialistic. In the next paragraph he
geographical term (“Maritimus”) and an economic one (“Commercialis”) shows how, in Defoe’s mind, geography and trade were inseparable. In that colonial context which is characterized by constant displacement for the colonizers and by dispossession or dislocation for the colonized populations, it becomes difficult to talk about “home” as a stable entity. This probably accounts for the fact that Crusoe designates what he calls “home” with a variety of synonyms or quasi-synonyms. A case in point is the famous extract when he discovers a footprint. The passage opens with the enumeration of habits that Crusoe has now that he has been living on the island for quite a while:

> This was also about half Way between my other Habitation and the
> Place where I had laid up my Boat, I generally stayed and lay here in
> my Way thither, for I used frequently to visit my Boat; and I kept all
> Things about or Belonging to her in very good Order. Sometimes I
> went out in her to divert myself. (120-121)

Crusoe has acquired a routine, as can be seen in the three frequency
adverbs (“generally,” “frequently,” “sometimes”) and, like many English
bourgeois of the time, he has got his main home and his second home
(Baridon 71-75), as is epitomized in his mention of his “other Habitation,”
that he calls elsewhere his “Country-House” (81)—as a complement to
his “Sea-Coast-House” (81)—or his “Bower” (81). Interestingly enough, it
is once he has found his country-house that Crusoe calls his sea-coast-
house “home,” thus signalling that home is the place where you can go
back to whenever you want: “it was the first Night I had lain from Home.
[....] I came Home; so I must now call my Tent and my Cave” (80). It also
suggests that Crusoe’s aggrandisement of his “estate” on the island gives
him an enhanced sense of home. One can also notice the abundance of
possessive adjectives that confirms his wish to own everything on the
island. But as the passage unfolds and as he discovers the presence of
one single footprint in the sand, he gets more and more afraid, and as
a response to his tremendous fear (of the Devil, of savage animals, of
cannibals), the lexis used to talk about his habitation evolves and becomes
more and more protectionist and imperialistic. In the next paragraph he
says: "I came Home to my Fortification," and he starts the second next paragraph by saying "when I came to my Castle," thus showing that "home" is a construction in his mind. The gradation from a habitation to a fortification to a castle corresponds to the crescendo of his emotions: the more anxious he is, the more he feels the need to designate his home as something that is solid and that can protect him, which leads us back to Ann Marie Fallon's argument that Crusoe is obsessed with the idea of home precisely because of "the anxiety of locating home in a colonial context" (Fallon 51). Elsewhere in the novel, Crusoe calls the island his "Kingdom" and it is once again associated with the figure of the reassuring circle: "I was eager to view the Circumference of my little Kingdom" (108). Again, this bond created between the island and a kingdom signals the replication of Great Britain on the pristine space of the desert island.

## 2.3 Home as family

Along with the designation of his construction with imperial or royal vocabulary to fight against his anxiety, Crusoe also (re-)creates a family in his home, by turning animals into his "subjects" and calling himself "King," "Prince" or "Lord" in a way that is reminiscent of Sir Robert Filmer's conception of power in *Patriarcha, or the Natural Power of Kings* (1680): "I was King and Lord of all this Country indefeasibly, and had a Right of Possession" (Robinson 80). Later on, he adds: "It would have made a Stoick Smile to have seen me and my little Family sit down to Dinner. There was my Majesty the Prince and Lord of the whole Island; I had the Lives of all my Subjects at my absolute Command" (116). Considering the fact that his family was not presented as united and whole in the incipit, Crusoe seems to project his desires for a family respectful of his person onto the animals of the island. The power differential he creates between himself as "Prince and Lord" and the animals as his "Subjects" gives him the validation he did not get from his father. This time, he becomes the father figure, and this will become even more present when Friday comes into the story and Crusoe acts as a protective father toward him. The relationship between Crusoe and Friday is a complex one that cannot be studied thoroughly in this essay but suffice it to say that Friday has an ambiguous status because he stands for Crusoe's son and servant at the same time, and this
says: "I came Home to my Fortification," and he starts the second next paragraph by saying "when I came to my Castle," thus showing that "home" is a construction in his mind. The gradation from a habitation to a fortification to a castle corresponds to the crescendo of his emotions: the more anxious he is, the more he feels the need to designate his home as something that is solid and that can protect him, which leads us back to Ann Marie Fallon's argument that Crusoe is obsessed with the idea of home precisely because of "the anxiety of locating home in a colonial context" (Fallon 51). Elsewhere in the novel, Crusoe calls the island his "Kingdom" and it is once again associated with the figure of the reassuring circle: "I was eager to view the Circumference of my little Kingdom" (108). Again, this bond created between the island and a kingdom signals the replication of Great Britain on the pristine space of the desert island.

## 2.3 Home as family

Along with the designation of his construction with imperial or royal vocabulary to fight against his anxiety, Crusoe also (re-)creates a family in his home, by turning animals into his "subjects" and calling himself "King," "Prince" or "Lord" in a way that is reminiscent of Sir Robert Filmer's conception of power in *Patriarcha, or the Natural Power of Kings* (1680): "I was King and Lord of all this Country indefeasibly, and had a Right of Possession" (Robinson 80). Later on, he adds: "It would have made a Stoick Smile to have seen me and my little Family sit down to Dinner. There was my Majesty the Prince and Lord of the whole Island; I had the Lives of all my Subjects at my absolute Command" (116). Considering the fact that his family was not presented as united and whole in the incipit, Crusoe seems to project his desires for a family respectful of his person onto the animals of the island. The power differential he creates between himself as "Prince and Lord" and the animals as his "Subjects" gives him the validation he did not get from his father. This time, he becomes the father figure, and this will become even more present when Friday comes into the story and Crusoe acts as a protective father toward him. The relationship between Crusoe and Friday is a complex one that cannot be studied thoroughly in this essay but suffice it to say that Friday has an ambiguous status because he stands for Crusoe's son and servant at the same time, and this
is epitomised in the fact that Friday lives with Crusoe but sleeps outside of Crusoe's cave, as a servant would do. Again, in Crusoe's relationship with Friday (and with Friday's father and the Spaniard), one can feel the anxiety and ambiguity of the colonizer trying to keep control of the native population by imposing his own system of value, his language, his culture, lest he should lose what he has built so far. It is a small colony made of a colonizer and three colonized people, but as Schonhorn put it, the triadic nature of this colony (or family) is a way for him to claim absolute and quasi divine power (Schonhorn 147-148, Filmer 5).

Crusoe's whole attitude is imbued with this anxiety and a protectionist response to it, and after he sees the footprint, he creates a double wall to protect himself even more and he even erects a third wall of stakes: these walls are as many concentric circles to recreate a safe space for himself. He uses the word "fence" to talk about his construction: "so I was completely fenced in, and fortified, as I thought, from all the world" (49), but what brings him even more security is that his protected and fortified place is made to look like nature, as in a fusion between man and nature, between the human dwelling and the environment, as in the following passage: "When this Wall was finished, and the Out-side double-fenced with a Turf-Wall raised up close to it, I perswaded myself that if any People were to come on Shore there, they would not perceive anything like a Habitation" (61). Here, the wall is made of grass, which constitutes the perfect camouflage for Crusoe in his half-natural half-constructed home.

## 3. Between Protectionism and Ecology: Continuity between Crusoe and Nature

### 3.1 At home on the desert island: nature as Nurturer

Indeed, in addition to the objects he managed to bring back from the shipwreck, Crusoe uses natural elements that he can find on the island in order to make his constructions, as for example, trees:

> This made me resolve to cut some more stakes, and make me a hedge like this in a semicircle round my wall (I mean that of my first dwelling), which I did; and placing the trees or stakes in a double row, at about
is epitomised in the fact that Friday lives with Crusoe but sleeps outside of Crusoe's cave, as a servant would do. Again, in Crusoe's relationship with Friday (and with Friday's father and the Spaniard), one can feel the anxiety and ambiguity of the colonizer trying to keep control of the native population by imposing his own system of value, his language, his culture, lest he should lose what he has built so far. It is a small colony made of a colonizer and three colonized people, but as Schonhorn put it, the triadic nature of this colony (or family) is a way for him to claim absolute and quasi divine power (Schonhorn 147-148, Filmer 5).

Crusoe's whole attitude is imbued with this anxiety and a protectionist response to it, and after he sees the footprint, he creates a double wall to protect himself even more and he even erects a third wall of stakes: these walls are as many concentric circles to recreate a safe space for himself. He uses the word "fence" to talk about his construction: "so I was completely fenced in, and fortified, as I thought, from all the world" (49), but what brings him even more security is that his protected and fortified place is made to look like nature, as in a fusion between man and nature, between the human dwelling and the environment, as in the following passage: "When this Wall was finished, and the Out-side double-fenced with a Turf-Wall raised up close to it, I perswaded myself that if any People were to come on Shore there, they would not perceive anything like a Habitation" (61). Here, the wall is made of grass, which constitutes the perfect camouflage for Crusoe in his half-natural half-constructed home.

**3. Between Protectionism and Ecology: Continuity between Crusoe and Nature**

**3.1 At home on the desert island: nature as Nurturer**

Indeed, in addition to the objects he managed to bring back from the shipwreck, Crusoe uses natural elements that he can find on the island in order to make his constructions, as for example, trees:

> This made me resolve to cut some more stakes, and make me a hedge like this in a semicircle round my wall (I mean that of my first dwelling), which I did; and placing the trees or stakes in a double row, at about
eight yards' distance from my first fence, they grew presently, and
were at first a fine cover to my habitation, and afterwards served
for a defence also. (84)

In this passage, the repetition of the possessive adjective “my” shows the necessity for Crusoe to appropriate the desert island space by domesticating it, by making it his home, and this is done by including nature, since trees serve to build that house, as the epanorthosis “trees or stakes” highlights. This shows a very strong connection between man and nature, even if man transforms nature by structuring its space. Crusoe, who is first desperate because of that contact with a hostile nature when, at the beginning, he calls it “the Island of Despair” (56), becomes profoundly place-connected. Topophobia turns into topophilia and the island is no longer a threat but a nurturer. Nature, initially associated to a hostile force epitomized in the storm that led him to this island, becomes a source of possibilities that he discovers as he restructures and mentally maps that natural space to make it his home. Nature is not favorable at first (“not one Grain of that I sowed this Time came to anything,” *Robinson* 83) but then it gets fruitful and provides him with about everything he needs. Crusoe’s particular handling of the land shows that man does not only leave a print on nature, but he actually influences it and even transforms it, and the desert island then looks like “a planted garden” (*Robinson* 80).

## 3.2 Home, oikos, ecology: the ontological identification between Crusoe and the island

This appropriation and transformation of the island by Crusoe is more than a propaganda for colonization. Defoe may have been in favor of colonization<fnref n="53" /> and he may have been a promoter of overseas trade and British expansion. However, Robinson Crusoe also contains apotropaic messages and warnings against the excesses of colonization, mercantilism and capitalism.<fnref n="54" /> The consequences of man's transformation of the land

<footnote n="53">⁵³ "No Man can object against the Advantages of a Collony provided the Place be well chosen," letter 170 to Robert Harley, 20 July 1711 (Defoe, *The Letters* 344).</footnote>

<footnote n="54">⁵⁴ See Peraldo 2019.</footnote>
eight yards' distance from my first fence, they grew presently, and
were at first a fine cover to my habitation, and afterwards served
for a defence also. (84)

In this passage, the repetition of the possessive adjective “my” shows the necessity for Crusoe to appropriate the desert island space by domesti-cating it, by making it his home, and this is done by including nature, since trees serve to build that house, as the epanorthosis “trees or stakes” highlights. This shows a very strong connection between man and nature, even if man transforms nature by structuring its space. Crusoe, who is first desperate because of that contact with a hostile nature when, at the beginning, he calls it “the Island of Despair” (56), becomes profoundly place-connected. Topophobia turns into topophilia and the island is no longer a threat but a nurturer. Nature, initially associated to a hostile force epitomized in the storm that led him to this island, becomes a source of possibilities that he discovers as he restructures and mentally maps that natural space to make it his home. Nature is not favorable at first (“not one Grain of that I sowed this Time came to anything,” *Robinson* 83) but then it gets fruitful and provides him with about everything he needs. Crusoe’s particular handling of the land shows that man does not only leave a print on nature, but he actually influences it and even transforms it, and the desert island then looks like “a planted garden” (*Robinson* 80).

## 3.2 Home, oikos, ecology: the ontological identification between Crusoe and the island

This appropriation and transformation of the island by Crusoe is more than a propaganda for colonization. Defoe may have been in favor of colonization<fnref n="53" /> and he may have been a promoter of overseas trade and British expansion. However, Robinson Crusoe also contains apotropaic messages and warnings against the excesses of colonization, mercantilism and capitalism.<fnref n="54" /> The consequences of man's transformation of the land

<footnote n="53">⁵³ "No Man can object against the Advantages of a Collony provided the Place be well chosen," letter 170 to Robert Harley, 20 July 1711 (Defoe, *The Letters* 344).</footnote>

<footnote n="54">⁵⁴ See Peraldo 2019.</footnote>
are very present, either in the form of agricultural and economic success,
or in the form of ecological disasters that stand for divine retribution, as
is underlined by Richard Kerridge: "ecological disaster is a punishment
for human transgression, the necessary consequence of going too far,
tampering with nature, usurping the place of divine providence" (3).
This conception of nature as Nemesis can be seen in Robinson Crusoe,
where the storm that leads the character to the island is interpreted
as a punishment for disobeying his father who condemned Robinson's
rambling thoughts. Then, the character builds his fortifications on the
island, enclosing space, and just after that action, an earthquake occurs
and scares him to death, and just after that, as if the first two warnings
were not enough, a hurricane occurs. With these episodes, Defoe wants
to say that if man acts on the environment, man acts on man himself,
and so improvements, changes and reorganizations must be done with
particular care and attention paid to nature and the environment. This
brings us back to the etymology of the word "ecology," i.e. home. Here
is the definition of ecology in the Encyclopædia Britannica:

The word ecology was coined by the German zoologist Ernst Haeckel,
who applied the term oekologie to the "relation of the animal both
to its organic as well as its inorganic environment." The word comes
from the Greek oikos, meaning "household," "home," or "place to
live." Thus, ecology deals with the organism and its environment.
The concept of environment includes both other organisms and
physical surroundings. It involves relationships between individuals
within a population and between individuals of different populations.
These interactions between individuals, between populations, and
between organisms and their environment form ecological systems,
or ecosystems. (Smith and Pimm)

Ecology and home are related by etymology and by the connections
between the human or animal and the environment in which they live.
Thus, it is really in the "interaction" between Crusoe and the island
that his sense of home emerges. In *Living in the Landscape: Towards
an Aesthetics of Environment*, Arnold Berleant states that man is an
are very present, either in the form of agricultural and economic success,
or in the form of ecological disasters that stand for divine retribution, as
is underlined by Richard Kerridge: "ecological disaster is a punishment
for human transgression, the necessary consequence of going too far,
tampering with nature, usurping the place of divine providence" (3).
This conception of nature as Nemesis can be seen in Robinson Crusoe,
where the storm that leads the character to the island is interpreted
as a punishment for disobeying his father who condemned Robinson's
rambling thoughts. Then, the character builds his fortifications on the
island, enclosing space, and just after that action, an earthquake occurs
and scares him to death, and just after that, as if the first two warnings
were not enough, a hurricane occurs. With these episodes, Defoe wants
to say that if man acts on the environment, man acts on man himself,
and so improvements, changes and reorganizations must be done with
particular care and attention paid to nature and the environment. This
brings us back to the etymology of the word "ecology," i.e. home. Here
is the definition of ecology in the Encyclopædia Britannica:

The word ecology was coined by the German zoologist Ernst Haeckel,
who applied the term oekologie to the "relation of the animal both
to its organic as well as its inorganic environment." The word comes
from the Greek oikos, meaning "household," "home," or "place to
live." Thus, ecology deals with the organism and its environment.
The concept of environment includes both other organisms and
physical surroundings. It involves relationships between individuals
within a population and between individuals of different populations.
These interactions between individuals, between populations, and
between organisms and their environment form ecological systems,
or ecosystems. (Smith and Pimm)

Ecology and home are related by etymology and by the connections
between the human or animal and the environment in which they live.
Thus, it is really in the "interaction" between Crusoe and the island
that his sense of home emerges. In *Living in the Landscape: Towards
an Aesthetics of Environment*, Arnold Berleant states that man is an
"actor" in nature, thus insisting on the inter-relationship between the human and the non-human, and he stresses the notion of "continuity" between man and nature: "connections rather than differences, continuity rather than separation, and the embeddedness of the human presence as knower and actor in the natural world" (7). More than a phenomenon of colonial appropriation, the relationship between Crusoe and the island becomes one of ontological identification, so much so that when we talk about Robinson Crusoe, we think about the protagonist on his island, as Michael Seidel points out: "As Crusoe remakes himself in a space that he inscribes, that space becomes him. To think of the man is to think in terms of the whole phrase 'Crusoe on his island'" (10). The story of *Robinson Crusoe* is that of a desolate traveler who becomes a land-owner, a "landed gentleman" (Marzec, *An Ecological and Postcolonial Study 14*), and edifies a fortune on it. Marzec's expression is interesting in so far as the concept of "land" becomes an adjective that defines the identity of the character. Identity and territory are intermingled: Crusoe's hybrid identity is related to the dislocation the island represents; his ascension is directly related to the land and its transformation by himself, which anchors him back into British identity that was defined at the time by colonial appropriation and expansion (Colley, Said).

At the term of this exploration into Crusoe's sense of home whereas he is imprisoned on a desert island for twenty-eight years, it becomes obvious that home is not a given but a construct, and that this construct can be physical, as when Crusoe, as a typical mercantilist and protectionist colonizer, builds walls, houses and barricades; psychological, as when Crusoe thinks about the security of his cave as home; or ecological, when Crusoe realises that his best ally is nature and that he can only feel at home if he protects the environment in which he lives.

If at the beginning of his stay on the island, he feels at home whenever he manages to accumulate objects from his past or money or when he appropriates space, as the novel unfolds, Crusoe changes and adapts his behavior. He no longer makes the mistakes of the beginning, as when he took too many grapes that ended up "bruis'd" (80) or when he wasted timber by cutting too big a trunk to create his canoe. He
"actor" in nature, thus insisting on the inter-relationship between the human and the non-human, and he stresses the notion of "continuity" between man and nature: "connections rather than differences, continuity rather than separation, and the embeddedness of the human presence as knower and actor in the natural world" (7). More than a phenomenon of colonial appropriation, the relationship between Crusoe and the island becomes one of ontological identification, so much so that when we talk about Robinson Crusoe, we think about the protagonist on his island, as Michael Seidel points out: "As Crusoe remakes himself in a space that he inscribes, that space becomes him. To think of the man is to think in terms of the whole phrase 'Crusoe on his island'" (10). The story of *Robinson Crusoe* is that of a desolate traveler who becomes a land-owner, a "landed gentleman" (Marzec, *An Ecological and Postcolonial Study 14*), and edifies a fortune on it. Marzec's expression is interesting in so far as the concept of "land" becomes an adjective that defines the identity of the character. Identity and territory are intermingled: Crusoe's hybrid identity is related to the dislocation the island represents; his ascension is directly related to the land and its transformation by himself, which anchors him back into British identity that was defined at the time by colonial appropriation and expansion (Colley, Said).

At the term of this exploration into Crusoe's sense of home whereas he is imprisoned on a desert island for twenty-eight years, it becomes obvious that home is not a given but a construct, and that this construct can be physical, as when Crusoe, as a typical mercantilist and protectionist colonizer, builds walls, houses and barricades; psychological, as when Crusoe thinks about the security of his cave as home; or ecological, when Crusoe realises that his best ally is nature and that he can only feel at home if he protects the environment in which he lives.

If at the beginning of his stay on the island, he feels at home whenever he manages to accumulate objects from his past or money or when he appropriates space, as the novel unfolds, Crusoe changes and adapts his behavior. He no longer makes the mistakes of the beginning, as when he took too many grapes that ended up "bruis'd" (80) or when he wasted timber by cutting too big a trunk to create his canoe. He
realises in a quasi-epiphanic moment that he must adjust his use of
natural elements to his needs:

But all I could make Use of was all that was valuable: I had enough
to eat and supply my Wants, and what was all the Rest to me? If I
killed more Flesh than I could eat, the Dog must eat it, or Vermin;
if I sowed more corn than I could eat, it must be spoiled; the Trees
that I cut down were lying to rot on the Ground; I could make no more
Use of them but for Fuel, and that I had no Occasion for but to dress
my Food. (101-102)

The interaction between Crusoe and the desert island makes readers think about what it means "to be at home in the world" (Fallon 4). As Richard Phillips says, *Robinson Crusoe* illustrates "the dialectical geography of home and away" (27) and Crusoe redefines these two polarities, as the island (that stands for "away") becomes Crusoe's new "home" in the geographical context of colonialism, a home that he should not merely appropriate but that he should preserve and protect.

Many robinsonades have been published between the eighteenth-
century colonial context of *Robinson Crusoe* and the twenty-first century:
revisionary writers have been meditating for three centuries on this idea
of being severed from one's country, one's family, one's home and trying
to find them again, often in vain. In her book interestingly entitled *Global
Crusoe*, Ann Marie Fallon writes that these authors of robinsonades
"create, or even reinforce the relationship between the dislocation the
island represents and the dislocation of postcolonial and postmodern
experiences in a transnational context" (27). It would no doubt be very
compelling to study what remains of Crusoe's sense of home after three
hundred years of robinsonades<fnref n="55" /> and in post-Brexit Great Britain.

<footnote n="55">⁵⁵ See Peraldo 2020.</footnote>
realises in a quasi-epiphanic moment that he must adjust his use of
natural elements to his needs:

But all I could make Use of was all that was valuable: I had enough
to eat and supply my Wants, and what was all the Rest to me? If I
killed more Flesh than I could eat, the Dog must eat it, or Vermin;
if I sowed more corn than I could eat, it must be spoiled; the Trees
that I cut down were lying to rot on the Ground; I could make no more
Use of them but for Fuel, and that I had no Occasion for but to dress
my Food. (101-102)

The interaction between Crusoe and the desert island makes readers think about what it means “to be at home in the world” (Fallon 4). As Richard Phillips says, *Robinson Crusoe* illustrates “the dialectical geography of home and away” (27) and Crusoe redefines these two polarities, as the island (that stands for “away”) becomes Crusoe’s new “home” in the geographical context of colonialism, a home that he should not merely appropriate but that he should preserve and protect.

Many robinsonades have been published between the eighteenth-
century colonial context of *Robinson Crusoe* and the twenty-first century:
revisionary writers have been meditating for three centuries on this idea
of being severed from one's country, one's family, one's home and trying
to find them again, often in vain. In her book interestingly entitled *Global
Crusoe*, Ann Marie Fallon writes that these authors of robinsonades
"create, or even reinforce the relationship between the dislocation the
island represents and the dislocation of postcolonial and postmodern
experiences in a transnational context" (27). It would no doubt be very
compelling to study what remains of Crusoe's sense of home after three
hundred years of robinsonades<fnref n="55" /> and in post-Brexit Great Britain.

<footnote n="55">⁵⁵ See Peraldo 2020.</footnote>
Works cited

BARIDON, Michel. "Robinson, jardinier en l'île." *Robinson*. Ed. Lise Andries. Paris, Autrement, "Figures mythiques" coll., 1996, pp. 69-85.

BERLEANT, Arnold. *Living in the Landscape: Towards an Aesthetics of Environment*. Lawrence, UP of Kansas, 1997.

BROWN, Julia Prewitt. "Chapter 1: Robinson Crusoe's Cave." *The Bourgeois Interior*. Charlottesville, U of Virginia P, 2012, pp. 25-39.

COLLEY, Linda. *Britons: Forging the Nation 1707-1837*. New Haven, Yale UP, 1992.

DEFOE, Daniel. *Robinson Crusoe*. 1719. New York and London, Norton, 1975.

—. *The Letters of Daniel Defoe*. 1955. Ed. George Harris Healey. Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1969.

FALLON, Ann Marie. *Global Crusoe. Comparative Literature, Postcolonial Theory and Transnational Aesthetics*. London, Ashgate, 2011.

FILMER, Robert. *Patriarcha, or the Natural Power of Kings*. 1680. Farlington Hills, Thomson Gale, 2005.

KERRIDGE, Richard and Neil SAMMELLS. *Writing the Environment. Ecocriticism and Literature*. London and New York, Zed Books, 1998.

LOCKE, John. *Essay on Human Understanding*. 1689. London, Dent, 1967.

MARZEC, Robert P. *An Ecological and Postcolonial Study of Literature. From Daniel Defoe to Salman Rushdie*. New York, Palgrave Macmillan, 2007.

—. "Enclosures, Colonization, and the Robinson Crusoe Syndrome: A Genealogy of Land in a Global Context." *Boundary* 2, vol. 29, n° 2, 2002, pp. 129-156.

NOVAK, Maximilian E. "*Robinson Crusoe* and the State of Nature." *Defoe and the Nature of Man*. Oxford UP, 1963.

PERALDO, Emmanuelle. "From Mercantilist to Utilitarian Crusoe: The Transformative Impact of the Desert Island." *Études anglaises*, vol. 72, n° 2, 2019, pp. 151-166.

—, ed. *300 Years of Robinsonades*. Newcastle upon Tyne, Cambridge Scholars, 2020.

PHILIPS, Richard. *Mapping Men and Empire. A Geography of Adventure*. London and New York, Routledge, 1997.

SAID, Edward W. *Culture and Imperialism*. New York, Knopf, 1994.
## Works cited

BARIDON, Michel. "Robinson, jardinier en l'île." *Robinson*. Ed. Lise Andries. Paris, Autrement, "Figures mythiques" coll., 1996, pp. 69-85.

BERLEANT, Arnold. *Living in the Landscape: Towards an Aesthetics of Environment*. Lawrence, UP of Kansas, 1997.

BROWN, Julia Prewitt. "Chapter 1: Robinson Crusoe's Cave." *The Bourgeois Interior*. Charlottesville, U of Virginia P, 2012, pp. 25-39.

COLLEY, Linda. *Britons: Forging the Nation 1707-1837*. New Haven, Yale UP, 1992.

DEFOE, Daniel. *Robinson Crusoe*. 1719. New York and London, Norton, 1975.

—. *The Letters of Daniel Defoe*. 1955. Ed. George Harris Healey. Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1969.

FALLON, Ann Marie. *Global Crusoe. Comparative Literature, Postcolonial Theory and Transnational Aesthetics*. London, Ashgate, 2011.

FILMER, Robert. *Patriarcha, or the Natural Power of Kings*. 1680. Farlington Hills, Thomson Gale, 2005.

KERRIDGE, Richard and Neil SAMMELLS. *Writing the Environment. Ecocriticism and Literature*. London and New York, Zed Books, 1998.

LOCKE, John. *Essay on Human Understanding*. 1689. London, Dent, 1967.

MARZEC, Robert P. *An Ecological and Postcolonial Study of Literature. From Daniel Defoe to Salman Rushdie*. New York, Palgrave Macmillan, 2007.

—. "Enclosures, Colonization, and the Robinson Crusoe Syndrome: A Genealogy of Land in a Global Context." *Boundary* 2, vol. 29, n° 2, 2002, pp. 129-156.

NOVAK, Maximilian E. "Robinson Crusoe and the State of Nature." *Defoe and the Nature of Man*. Oxford UP, 1963.

PERALDO, Emmanuelle. "From Mercantilist to Utilitarian Crusoe: The Transformative Impact of the Desert Island." *Études anglaises*, vol. 72, n° 2, 2019, pp. 151-166.

—, ed. *300 Years of Robinsonades*. Newcastle upon Tyne, Cambridge Scholars, 2020.

PHILIPS, Richard. *Mapping Men and Empire. A Geography of Adventure*. London and New York, Routledge, 1997.

SAID, Edward W. *Culture and Imperialism*. New York, Knopf, 1994.
SCHONHORN, Manuel. "The Politics of Robinson Crusoe." *Defoe's Politics: Parliament, Power, Kingship and Robinson Crusoe*. Cambridge UP, 1991, pp. 141-164.

SEIDEL, Michael. "Crusoe in Exile." *PMLA*, vol. 96, n° 3, 1981, pp. 363-374.

SMITH, Robert Leo and Stuart L. PIMM. "Ecology." *Encyclopedia Britannica*, 7 Feb. 2019, https://www.britannica.com/science/ecology. Accessed 14 May 2021.

URBAIN, Jean-Didier. "Du mythe à la manière. Résider selon Robinson en son île." *Communications*, 73, 2002, pp. 65-72.
SCHONHORN, Manuel. "The Politics of Robinson Crusoe." *Defoe's Politics: Parliament, Power, Kingship and Robinson Crusoe*. Cambridge UP, 1991, pp. 141-164.

SEIDEL, Michael. "Crusoe in Exile." *PMLA*, vol. 96, n° 3, 1981, pp. 363-374.

SMITH, Robert Leo and Stuart L. PIMM. "Ecology." *Encyclopedia Britannica*, 7 Feb. 2019, https://www.britannica.com/science/ecology. Accessed 14 May 2021.

URBAIN, Jean-Didier. "Du mythe à la manière. Résider selon Robinson en son île." *Communications*, 73, 2002, pp. 65-72.
Chapter 2

Thoreau Living
at Walden and
Writing Walden
in a Home of His Own:
The Roots, the Village,
and the Cosmos

David Latour
Chapter 2

Thoreau Living
at Walden and
Writing Walden
in a Home of His Own:
The Roots, the Village,
and the Cosmos

David Latour
<figure><img src="image_6.png" /></figure>
<figure><img src="image_6.png" /></figure>
## Chapter 2

In *Walden* (1854), Henry David Thoreau recounts how and why he went to live in a cabin by a pond in the woods. This work is at once an account of Thoreau's own experience living a simple life in this modest cabin by Walden Pond, and a social commentary of his time. From the outset of the book, he describes his own ambition to live self-sufficiently and without unnecessary possessions. In the first chapter, “Economy,” he criticizes his contemporaries' materialistic appetite and senseless agitation:

> Before we can adorn our houses with beautiful objects the walls must be stripped, and our lives must be stripped, and beautiful housekeeping and beautiful living be laid for a foundation. (353)

Thoreau uses this metaphor of the stripping of one's self and of one's home to warn against the useless luxuries of his time. *Webster's Dictionary* defines “home” as “one's place of residence” that is, to put it differently, the place where one lives permanently, one's accommodation, a roof over one's head. House-keeping is primarily an art of being and of living in one's home; it is the economy of one's home. In fact, the term “economy” was formed from the Greek syntagm *oikos* which means “home” or “dwelling.” Economy considers the organization and administration of the household, as this term is also constructed from the Greek syntagm *nemein* which means “to administer.” Thoreau describes the economy of his new household—including details about the organization, management
Chapter 2

In *Walden* (1854), Henry David Thoreau recounts how and why he went to live in a cabin by a pond in the woods. This work is at once an account of Thoreau's own experience living a simple life in this modest cabin by Walden Pond, and a social commentary of his time. From the outset of the book, he describes his own ambition to live self-sufficiently and without unnecessary possessions. In the first chapter, “Economy,” he criticizes his contemporaries’ materialistic appetite and senseless agitation:

> Before we can adorn our houses with beautiful objects the walls must be stripped, and our lives must be stripped, and beautiful housekeeping and beautiful living be laid for a foundation. (353)

Thoreau uses this metaphor of the stripping of one's self and of one's
home to warn against the useless luxuries of his time. Webster's *Dictionary*
defines "home" as "one's place of residence" that is, to put it differently,
the place where one lives permanently, one's accommodation, a roof over
one's head. House-keeping is primarily an art of being and of living in
one's home; it is the economy of one's home. In fact, the term "economy"
was formed from the Greek syntagm *oikos* which means "home" or
"dwelling." Economy considers the organization and administration of
the household, as this term is also constructed from the Greek syntagm
*nemein* which means "to administer." Thoreau describes the economy of
his new household—including details about the organization, management
(or "administration"), building, and localization of his cabin—demonstrating his own stripping down process and simplified lifestyle. This work has widespread literary and philosophical implications as, through the describing of his own personal experiences of simple living, he invites readers to reflect on their own lifestyle and relationship with the outside world. Walden cabin offers Thoreau a specific perspective on the world; it is a point of view he writes from and about. In this paper, I will explore how living at Walden cabin shaped Thoreau's own philosophy and viewpoint. To create, he needs "a room of his own" to rephrase the title of Virginia Woolf's famous essay, a small space that belongs to him exclusively, in which he has sufficient time and space to be an independent thinker and nature writer. I will begin by discussing the origins and "roots" of the cabin. Then, I will explore how Thoreau related to the outside world (specifically the village of Concord) while living at Walden. Finally, I will tackle the idea of immobility and movement throughout the book, a dynamic within the home that creates tension between inner and outer spaces in relation to the cosmos and eternity.

# 1. Building and Siting the Cabin

## 1.1 Personal and geographic roots

Thoreau had a personal relationship to the Walden woods and their pond. His connection to the place dates back to early childhood memories of family camping trips to the area. In *Walden*, he recollects one of the first scenes etched in his memories:

> When I was four years old [...] I was brought from Boston to this my native town, through these very woods and this field, to the pond. It is one of the oldest scenes stamped on my memory. [...] Almost the same johnswort springs from the same perennial root in this pasture, and even I have at length helped to clothe that fabulous landscape of my infant dreams, and one of the results of my presence and influence is seen in these bean leaves, corn blades, and potato vines. (446)
(or "administration"), building, and localization of his cabin—demonstrating his own stripping down process and simplified lifestyle. This work has widespread literary and philosophical implications as, through the describing of his own personal experiences of simple living, he invites readers to reflect on their own lifestyle and relationship with the outside world. Walden cabin offers Thoreau a specific perspective on the world; it is a point of view he writes from and about. In this paper, I will explore how living at Walden cabin shaped Thoreau's own philosophy and viewpoint. To create, he needs "a room of his own" to rephrase the title of Virginia Woolf's famous essay, a small space that belongs to him exclusively, in which he has sufficient time and space to be an independent thinker and nature writer. I will begin by discussing the origins and "roots" of the cabin. Then, I will explore how Thoreau related to the outside world (specifically the village of Concord) while living at Walden. Finally, I will tackle the idea of immobility and movement throughout the book, a dynamic within the home that creates tension between inner and outer spaces in relation to the cosmos and eternity.

# 1. Building and Siting the Cabin

## 1.1 Personal and geographic roots

Thoreau had a personal relationship to the Walden woods and their pond. His connection to the place dates back to early childhood memories of family camping trips to the area. In *Walden*, he recollects one of the first scenes etched in his memories:

> When I was four years old [...] I was brought from Boston to this my native town, through these very woods and this field, to the pond. It is one of the oldest scenes stamped on my memory. [...] Almost the same johnswort springs from the same perennial root in this pasture, and even I have at length helped to clothe that fabulous landscape of my infant dreams, and one of the results of my presence and influence is seen in these bean leaves, corn blades, and potato vines. (446)
This episode, although belonging to the past, still echoes in his adult life.
In *Walden Pond: a History*, William Barksdale Maynard points out that
"[t]hese childhood memories of what seemed primeval forest left an
indelible impression on Thoreau" (16). This memory set the foundation
for his strong connection to the place so that the choice seemed almost
preordained. This personal mythology is commented upon by William
Ellery Channing. Upon receiving a letter from Thoreau informing him of
his intention to live in a cabin by Walden Pond, Channing wrote back on
March 5, 1845:

> I see nothing for you in this earth but that field [...]; go out upon that,
> build yourself a hut, & there begin the grand process of devouring
> yourself up; you will eat nobody else, nor anything else. (The
> Correspondence 268)

Channing encourages his friend to follow his destiny and his conviction.
It is as if this project was meant to be, and Channing recognizes and
anticipates Thoreau's settlement as a founding moment in his personal
history. The Walden cabin is as much rooted in the author's biography
as it is in the soils of New England.

Thoreau felt a sense of belonging in Walden. A lasting miscon-
ception about his life and work is that they paralleled the life and work
of Diogenes the Cynic. Many people criticized Thoreau for this reason,
including Charles Frederick Briggs, who, in October 1854, published a
review of *Walden* entitled "A Yankee Diogenes." He argues that if the
author can be misunderstood, it is because "[t]he New England character
is essentially anti-Diogenic" (Briggs 391). Later, on November 21, 1857,
yet another contemporary of Thoreau published a review in which he
calls him "An American Diogenes" and equates him with

[t]he transatlantic Diogenes [...] [who] when he observed the foolish,
aimless bustle made by the modern Corinthians of the world, in pursuit
of the sacred dollar and its glittering accessories, instead of rolling
about in his tub, quietly sat down in it, and wrote an interesting book.
(Myerson 409)
This episode, although belonging to the past, still echoes in his adult life. In *Walden Pond: a History*, William Barksdale Maynard points out that “[t]hese childhood memories of what seemed primeval forest left an indelible impression on Thoreau” (16). This memory set the foundation for his strong connection to the place so that the choice seemed almost preordained. This personal mythology is commented upon by William Ellery Channing. Upon receiving a letter from Thoreau informing him of his intention to live in a cabin by Walden Pond, Channing wrote back on March 5, 1845:

> I see nothing for you in this earth but that field [...]; go out upon that, build yourself a hut, & there begin the grand process of devouring yourself up; you will eat nobody else, nor anything else. (The Correspondence 268)

Channing encourages his friend to follow his destiny and his conviction. It is as if this project was meant to be, and Channing recognizes and anticipates Thoreau's settlement as a founding moment in his personal history. The Walden cabin is as much rooted in the author's biography as it is in the soils of New England.

Thoreau felt a sense of belonging in Walden. A lasting misconception about his life and work is that they paralleled the life and work of Diogenes the Cynic. Many people criticized Thoreau for this reason, including Charles Frederick Briggs, who, in October 1854, published a review of *Walden* entitled “A Yankee Diogenes.” He argues that if the author can be misunderstood, it is because “[t]he New England character is essentially anti-Diogenic” (Briggs 391). Later, on November 21, 1857, yet another contemporary of Thoreau published a review in which he calls him “An American Diogenes” and equates him with

> [t]he transatlantic Diogenes [...] [who] when he observed the foolish, aimless bustle made by the modern Corinthians of the world, in pursuit of the sacred dollar and its glittering accessories, instead of rolling about in his tub, quietly sat down in it, and wrote an interesting book.

(Myerson 409)
However, making Thoreau an heir to Diogenes the Cynic is a gross mis-
apprehension of his literary and philosophical approach. Not only does he
not live in a tub (or actually a "pithos" or storage jar) that he would roll up
and down hills for no apparent reason other than to show his neighbors
how pointless their incessant everyday agitation is as Diogenes did, but
he feels in close connection to his Walden home.

Thoreau's Walden cabin is deeply anchored in his native Concord,
Massachusetts and its surroundings, where he wanted to feel included.
Frederick Garber's Heideggerian perspective of "at-homeness" in *Thoreau's
Fable of Inscribing* emphasizes the author's effort to create a home for himself
both in his work and in this world or "to be at home in the world" (6). The
cabin and its rooting in the soil of Concord is the *sine qua non* reason and
identity of his writing. The land the cabin is on offers it its unique identity.
His home is a very earthy dwelling and the very foundation of his book.
Robert P. Harrison argues in *Forest: The Shadow of Civilization* that Thoreau
wants to live "in a house built on the foundation of reality, on the earth"
(232). Both the cabin and the book come from the soil of Walden. Thoreau
established his viewpoint from both his lived experience in Walden and in
writing *Walden*. Though he had considered many different houses before
Walden, he decided on the latter: "wherever I sat, there I might live, and
the landscape radiated from me accordingly. What is a house but a *sedes*,
a seat?" (*Walden* 387) Walden became an external representation of his
ideas of home, relationship with the natural world and his surroundings.
Before settling down both in body and mind in his cabin, the author wrote in
his journal on April 5, 1841: "I only ask a clean seat. I will build my lodge on
the southern slope of some hill, and take there the life the gods send me"
(*Journal I*, I, 244). Any place would have been as good as Walden because
it is the owner of the house that gives it its full potential, and in the case
of Thoreau, makes it a place to think and write.

1.2 Home-building and authorship

The architecture of Thoreau's home parallels that of his writing.
The actual construction of the cabin was also of paramount importance
because in building it, Thoreau also elaborated his ideas, perspective and
book. Building his Walden home is an act of co-creation, both of the place
However, making Thoreau an heir to Diogenes the Cynic is a gross mis-
apprehension of his literary and philosophical approach. Not only does he
not live in a tub (or actually a "pithos" or storage jar) that he would roll up
and down hills for no apparent reason other than to show his neighbors
how pointless their incessant everyday agitation is as Diogenes did, but
he feels in close connection to his Walden home.

Thoreau's Walden cabin is deeply anchored in his native Concord,
Massachusetts and its surroundings, where he wanted to feel included.
Frederick Garber's Heideggerian perspective of "at-homeness" in *Thoreau's
Fable of Inscribing* emphasizes the author's effort to create a home for himself
both in his work and in this world or "to be at home in the world" (6). The
cabin and its rooting in the soil of Concord is the *sine qua non* reason and
identity of his writing. The land the cabin is on offers it its unique identity.
His home is a very earthy dwelling and the very foundation of his book.
Robert P. Harrison argues in *Forest: The Shadow of Civilization* that Thoreau
wants to live "in a house built on the foundation of reality, on the earth"
(232). Both the cabin and the book come from the soil of Walden. Thoreau
established his viewpoint from both his lived experience in Walden and in
writing *Walden*. Though he had considered many different houses before
Walden, he decided on the latter: "wherever I sat, there I might live, and
the landscape radiated from me accordingly. What is a house but a *sedes*,
a seat?" (*Walden* 387) Walden became an external representation of his
ideas of home, relationship with the natural world and his surroundings.
Before settling down both in body and mind in his cabin, the author wrote in
his journal on April 5, 1841: "I only ask a clean seat. I will build my lodge on
the southern slope of some hill, and take there the life the gods send me"
(*Journal I*, I, 244). Any place would have been as good as Walden because
it is the owner of the house that gives it its full potential, and in the case
of Thoreau, makes it a place to think and write.

1.2 Home-building and authorship

The architecture of Thoreau's home parallels that of his writing.
The actual construction of the cabin was also of paramount importance
because in building it, Thoreau also elaborated his ideas, perspective and
book. Building his Walden home is an act of co-creation, both of the place
he intends to live in and of the activity he intends to perform in it. As Christian Doumet indicates in *Trois huttes*: "Building the huts, [is] writing the book" (22). The building of his Walden home is of paramount importance as a landmark both in his life and work. The cabin determines the very nature of his living and writing by the pond. In Gilles A. Tiberghien's words in his *Notes sur la nature, la cabane et quelques autres choses*, "what the author exposes to us is an experience of thought of which the hut is an indispensable moment: not an illustration, not an adventure that we could have done without, but a constitutive moment" (22). The writer at Walden cabin and the character in the cabin described in *Walden* are impossible to tell apart. In "Thoreau's Unreal Estate," Maura D'Amore stresses that "[o]ver the course of *Walden*, Thoreau crafts a domestic environment from words and phrases. His pond house is, to be sure, material, but his cabin in the woods is a product of his mind as much as of his hands" (73). In a powerful romantic surge, the author declares his home-cabin the center of his creative world. Thoreau's intention was to build a sturdy and reliable home that would be a representation of his inner world and allow him to feel rooted in the soil of Walden. In *Henry David Thoreau. A Life*, Laura Dassow Walls observes:

> Others have called the shelter on Walden's shores a cabin, a hut, or shanty, but Thoreau almost always called it a house, insisting on the solidity and dignity he worked so hard to attain [...] Thoreau wanted a house to embody a new self, so that building that house meant building that self, literally from the ground up. (190)

The foundations of his Walden home are deeply rooted in the soil of Walden in which he dips his pen, and in himself as well. In this respect, one of his closest friends and first biographer, William Ellery Channing, reflects about his cabin in *Thoreau: The Poet-Naturalist*: "Here, in this wooden inkstand, he wrote a good part of his famous *Walden*" (218). Therefore, his cabin is not a simple hut or shack, it is an actual home.

Building one's home is a source of individual empowerment. Thoreau proudly speaks of himself as "the home-staying, laborious native of the soil" (Walden 447). Along the same lines, Antoine Marcel states in *Traité*
he intends to live in and of the activity he intends to perform in it. As Christian Doumet indicates in *Trois huttes*: "Building the huts, [is] writing the book" (22). The building of his Walden home is of paramount importance as a landmark both in his life and work. The cabin determines the very nature of his living and writing by the pond. In Gilles A. Tiberghien's words in his *Notes sur la nature, la cabane et quelques autres choses*, "what the author exposes to us is an experience of thought of which the hut is an indispensable moment: not an illustration, not an adventure that we could have done without, but a constitutive moment" (22). The writer at Walden cabin and the character in the cabin described in *Walden* are impossible to tell apart. In "Thoreau's Unreal Estate," Maura D'Amore stresses that "[o]ver the course of *Walden*, Thoreau crafts a domestic environment from words and phrases. His pond house is, to be sure, material, but his cabin in the woods is a product of his mind as much as of his hands" (73). In a powerful romantic surge, the author declares his home-cabin the center of his creative world. Thoreau's intention was to build a sturdy and reliable home that would be a representation of his inner world and allow him to feel rooted in the soil of Walden. In *Henry David Thoreau. A Life*, Laura Dassow Walls observes:

> Others have called the shelter on Walden's shores a cabin, a hut, or shanty, but Thoreau almost always called it a house, insisting on the solidity and dignity he worked so hard to attain [...] Thoreau wanted a house to embody a new self, so that building that house meant building that self, literally from the ground up. (190)

The foundations of his Walden home are deeply rooted in the soil of Walden in which he dips his pen, and in himself as well. In this respect, one of his closest friends and first biographer, William Ellery Channing, reflects about his cabin in *Thoreau: The Poet-Naturalist*: "Here, in this wooden inkstand, he wrote a good part of his famous *Walden*" (218). Therefore, his cabin is not a simple hut or shack, it is an actual home.

Building one's home is a source of individual empowerment. Thoreau proudly speaks of himself as "the home-staying, laborious native of the soil" (Walden 447). Along the same lines, Antoine Marcel states in *Traité*
de la cabane solitaire that “[t]he cabin builder had better be a dreamer of the realistic type” (142) for the physical activity it involves requires us to rub shoulders with an often harsh reality. The builder and the owner of a house should be the same person. We should not rely on specialists such as architects to build our own houses. We should be the specialists of our own lives and never delegate such responsibilities to anyone. Seemingly elaborating on Emerson's concept of “Over Soul,” Thoreau asks:

> Who knows but if men constructed their dwellings with their own hands, [...] the poetic faculty would be universally developed [...]? [...] Shall we forever resign the pleasure of construction to the carpenter? [...] No doubt another may also think for me; but it is not therefore desirable that he should do so to the exclusion of my thinking for myself. (Walden 358)

According to Thoreau, human beings are whole beings and one's home should be the reflection of one's personality, including our spiritual and mental virtues. He expands upon this conception of architecture as having "gradually grown from within outward, out of the necessities and character of the indweller, who is the only builder" (Walden 360). In his view, our dwellings are our "shells" (Walden 360). As James Dougherty phrases it in "House-Building and House-Holding at Walden," "Thoreau's pages show that the Walden house, and his dwelling there, are the sturdy outward shapings of an inward state" (227). This inward state shows through in the architecture of our home which in its turn enables us to bring about our thoughts and actions. Still, however personal and intimate this project is, it is not that of a friendless man.

## 1.3 Foundations and relationships

The cabin is not the result of a solitary effort by which Thoreau struggled to create a home for himself out of nowhere. Instead, it is the result of a collective effort. The first paragraph of Walden states that he settled down "in a house which [he] had built [him]self" (325);<fnref n="56" />

<footnote n="56">⁵⁶ My emphasis.</footnote>
de la cabane solitaire that “[t]he cabin builder had better be a dreamer of the realistic type” (142) for the physical activity it involves requires us to rub shoulders with an often harsh reality. The builder and the owner of a house should be the same person. We should not rely on specialists such as architects to build our own houses. We should be the specialists of our own lives and never delegate such responsibilities to anyone. Seemingly elaborating on Emerson’s concept of “Over Soul,” Thoreau asks:

> Who knows but if men constructed their dwellings with their own hands, [...] the poetic faculty would be universally developed [...]? [...] Shall we forever resign the pleasure of construction to the carpenter? [...] No doubt another may also think for me; but it is not therefore desirable that he should do so to the exclusion of my thinking for myself. (Walden 358)

According to Thoreau, human beings are whole beings and one's home should be the reflection of one's personality, including our spiritual and mental virtues. He expands upon this conception of architecture as having "gradually grown from within outward, out of the necessities and character of the indweller, who is the only builder" (Walden 360). In his view, our dwellings are our "shells" (Walden 360). As James Dougherty phrases it in "House-Building and House-Holding at Walden," "Thoreau's pages show that the Walden house, and his dwelling there, are the sturdy outward shapings of an inward state" (227). This inward state shows through in the architecture of our home which in its turn enables us to bring about our thoughts and actions. Still, however personal and intimate this project is, it is not that of a friendless man.

## 1.3 Foundations and relationships

The cabin is not the result of a solitary effort by which Thoreau struggled to create a home for himself out of nowhere. Instead, it is the result of a collective effort. The first paragraph of Walden states that he settled down "in a house which [he] had built [him]self" (325);<fnref n="56" />

<footnote n="56">⁵⁶ My emphasis.</footnote>
nevertheless, this statement needs to be taken with caution. Thoreau
did not accomplish this project completely alone as he got help from
friends, such as Amos Bronson Alcott whose axe was used to cut down
white pines. In *Walden*, he discusses how help from friends can make
the project all the more meaningful: "It is difficult to begin without
borrowing, but perhaps it is the most generous course thus to permit
your fellow-men to have an interest in your enterprise" (354-355). The
idea of getting started with the help of a friendly companion who lends
something meaningful makes his house-building project more precious
since it shows trust and encouragement. Of course, the idea conveyed
by this metaphor of lending and borrowing a tool is that an author always
borrows from his or her predecessors when getting started on a literary
project. His cabin is part of a larger human scheme.

Thoreau's home building is not only a group effort, but also eco-
nomical. He reuses and recycles a shanty so as not to waste time, money
and energy, and gives new meaning to it: it will be the house of a nature
writer. By turns a lumberjack, a carpenter, and a joiner, he had previously
purchased the shanty of James Collins for $4.25. It was considered
to be in good shape but on closer inspection, Thoreau notices it has
many flaws. While the shanty was not perfect, Thoreau and his friends
reconstructed it to make it his own. The author recounts how he took
the boards apart and used recycled materials to make a house that was
unique to his tastes and could not be replicated. In *De la nécessité des
cabanes*, Gilles A. Tiberghien analyses: "He won't do the same one again
because each cabin is different, and if one builds one from the remains,
and even if the second one looks like the first, the result will be different"
(25). The collective construction of the cabin meant that the structure
remained irreplaceable to him but also shared in the collective memory
of the building process:

[W]ith the help of some of my acquaintances, rather to improve so
good an occasion for neighborliness than from any necessity, I set
up the frame of my house. No man was ever more honored in the
character of his raisers than I. (Walden 358)
nevertheless, this statement needs to be taken with caution. Thoreau
did not accomplish this project completely alone as he got help from
friends, such as Amos Bronson Alcott whose axe was used to cut down
white pines. In *Walden*, he discusses how help from friends can make
the project all the more meaningful: "It is difficult to begin without
borrowing, but perhaps it is the most generous course thus to permit
your fellow-men to have an interest in your enterprise" (354-355). The
idea of getting started with the help of a friendly companion who lends
something meaningful makes his house-building project more precious
since it shows trust and encouragement. Of course, the idea conveyed
by this metaphor of lending and borrowing a tool is that an author always
borrows from his or her predecessors when getting started on a literary
project. His cabin is part of a larger human scheme.

Thoreau's home building is not only a group effort, but also eco-
nomical. He reuses and recycles a shanty so as not to waste time, money
and energy, and gives new meaning to it: it will be the house of a nature
writer. By turns a lumberjack, a carpenter, and a joiner, he had previously
purchased the shanty of James Collins for $4.25. It was considered
to be in good shape but on closer inspection, Thoreau notices it has
many flaws. While the shanty was not perfect, Thoreau and his friends
reconstructed it to make it his own. The author recounts how he took
the boards apart and used recycled materials to make a house that was
unique to his tastes and could not be replicated. In *De la nécessité des
cabanes*, Gilles A. Tiberghien analyses: "He won't do the same one again
because each cabin is different, and if one builds one from the remains,
and even if the second one looks like the first, the result will be different"
(25). The collective construction of the cabin meant that the structure
remained irreplaceable to him but also shared in the collective memory
of the building process:

[W]ith the help of some of my acquaintances, rather to improve so
good an occasion for neighborliness than from any necessity, I set
up the frame of my house. No man was ever more honored in the
character of his raisers than I. (Walden 358)
His borrowing an axe from a friend, his reusing a neighbor's shanty, and
his benefiting from friends who came and raised the cabin's frame show a
form of heritage. In a way, he inherits the individual stories of his friends
and neighbors so as to maintain a relationship with them.

Walden cabin is anchored in stories of friendship and philosophical
filiation. Its location is all the more perfect as it is on Emerson's property
without being in his own home. The cabin was built on Wyman Lot—the
piece of land Emerson had acquired in September 1844. Thoreau had just
spent two years living with the Emersons from April 1841 to May 1843.
At the same time, this experience gave him more self-discipline in his
writing as Dassow Walls puts it:

> Under Emerson's roof, Thoreau consolidated his sense of himself
> as above all a writer [...], a true and focused professional patterned
> after Emerson's own model, which Thoreau [...] witnessed daily. (122)

In a way, by building the cabin, living in it and writing in it, Thoreau
fulfills both his dream and Emerson's. He both emancipates himself from
his mentor and gives life and meaning to Emerson's piece of land by
becoming a true "American scholar." Hence, Walden provides a purpose
to the Emersonian ground. It is doubtlessly with a certain irony and taste
for the symbolic that Thoreau writes that the day he settled down in
Walden cabin "by accident, was on Independence Day, or the Fourth of
July, 1845" (Walden 389).<fnref n="57" /> Yet, it is no "accident" if Thoreau creates a
bridge between the two declarations, as Stanley Cavell reveals in Senses
of Walden. Thoreau's America is still not independent from England, which
dominated it, "because we have not departed from the conditions England
lives under, either in our literature or in our political and economic lives"
(Cavell 7). By settling down at Walden, Thoreau breaks away from these
old European influences and creates not just a work of art of his own
but also contributes to fashioning a uniquely American cultural identity.
Cavell depicts the convergence of his personal fate and America's national
destiny as follows:

<footnote n="57">⁵⁷ My emphasis.</footnote>
His borrowing an axe from a friend, his reusing a neighbor's shanty, and
his benefiting from friends who came and raised the cabin's frame show a
form of heritage. In a way, he inherits the individual stories of his friends
and neighbors so as to maintain a relationship with them.

Walden cabin is anchored in stories of friendship and philosophical
filiation. Its location is all the more perfect as it is on Emerson's property
without being in his own home. The cabin was built on Wyman Lot—the
piece of land Emerson had acquired in September 1844. Thoreau had just
spent two years living with the Emersons from April 1841 to May 1843.
At the same time, this experience gave him more self-discipline in his
writing as Dassow Walls puts it:

> Under Emerson's roof, Thoreau consolidated his sense of himself
> as above all a writer [...], a true and focused professional patterned
> after Emerson's own model, which Thoreau [...] witnessed daily. (122)

In a way, by building the cabin, living in it and writing in it, Thoreau
fulfills both his dream and Emerson's. He both emancipates himself from
his mentor and gives life and meaning to Emerson's piece of land by
becoming a true "American scholar." Hence, Walden provides a purpose
to the Emersonian ground. It is doubtlessly with a certain irony and taste
for the symbolic that Thoreau writes that the day he settled down in
Walden cabin "by accident, was on Independence Day, or the Fourth of
July, 1845" (Walden 389).<fnref n="57" /> Yet, it is no "accident" if Thoreau creates a
bridge between the two declarations, as Stanley Cavell reveals in Senses
of Walden. Thoreau's America is still not independent from England, which
dominated it, "because we have not departed from the conditions England
lives under, either in our literature or in our political and economic lives"
(Cavell 7). By settling down at Walden, Thoreau breaks away from these
old European influences and creates not just a work of art of his own
but also contributes to fashioning a uniquely American cultural identity.
Cavell depicts the convergence of his personal fate and America's national
destiny as follows:

<footnote n="57">⁵⁷ My emphasis.</footnote>
Leaving Walden, like leaving Walden, is as hard, is perhaps the same,
as entering it [...] the time of crisis depicted in this book is not alone
a private one, and not wholly cosmic. It is simultaneously a crisis in
the nation's life. And the nation too must die down to the root if it is
to continue to recognize and neighbor itself. This is to be expected
of a people whose groping for expression produced a literature by
producing prophecy [...]. The hero of the book—as is typical of his
procedures—enacts this fact as well as writes it, depicts it in his
actions as well as in his sentences. Of course, the general action of
building his house is the general prophecy. (116)

Emerson's transcendental project of "self-reliance" is materialized in the
cabin by the pond. It becomes a place of emancipation for someone who
had only lived at home, at college, or with the Emersons. By settling down
on Emerson's piece of property, Thoreau is an heir to his transcendentalist
mentor to whose philosophy and friendship he pays tribute. Walden cabin
would not have been built without the collaboration of acquaintances and
friends. Thoreau is not alone in building his small house but, be that as it
may, is he really alone when living in it?

## 2. The Cabin and the Village

### 2.1 Society and solitude

The misconception that Thoreau led the life of a hermit still often
prevails. According to Webster's *dictionary*, a hermit is "one that retires
from society and lives in solitude especially for religious reasons." He
came to be referred to as a hermit right from the moment he published
*Walden*; in *Emerson and Thoreau: The Contemporary Reviews*, Joel
Myerson lists over ten occurrences of the word "hermit" by different
authors in reference to Thoreau (371, 372, 373, 374, 375, 384, 387, 391,
392), whereas only two critics insist that he is no hermit (393, 398). This
is very likely to have influenced how Thoreau and *Walden* have come to
be perceived and remembered.

Nonetheless, *Walden* is not a simple account of the two years, two
months and two days Thoreau spent living in the woods and it should
Leaving Walden, like leaving Walden, is as hard, is perhaps the same,
as entering it [...] the time of crisis depicted in this book is not alone
a private one, and not wholly cosmic. It is simultaneously a crisis in
the nation's life. And the nation too must die down to the root if it is
to continue to recognize and neighbor itself. This is to be expected
of a people whose groping for expression produced a literature by
producing prophecy [...]. The hero of the book—as is typical of his
procedures—enacts this fact as well as writes it, depicts it in his
actions as well as in his sentences. Of course, the general action of
building his house is the general prophecy. (116)

Emerson's transcendental project of "self-reliance" is materialized in the
cabin by the pond. It becomes a place of emancipation for someone who
had only lived at home, at college, or with the Emersons. By settling down
on Emerson's piece of property, Thoreau is an heir to his transcendentalist
mentor to whose philosophy and friendship he pays tribute. Walden cabin
would not have been built without the collaboration of acquaintances and
friends. Thoreau is not alone in building his small house but, be that as it
may, is he really alone when living in it?

## 2. The Cabin and the Village

### 2.1 Society and solitude

The misconception that Thoreau led the life of a hermit still often
prevails. According to Webster's *dictionary*, a hermit is "one that retires
from society and lives in solitude especially for religious reasons." He
came to be referred to as a hermit right from the moment he published
*Walden*; in *Emerson and Thoreau: The Contemporary Reviews*, Joel
Myerson lists over ten occurrences of the word "hermit" by different
authors in reference to Thoreau (371, 372, 373, 374, 375, 384, 387, 391,
392), whereas only two critics insist that he is no hermit (393, 398). This
is very likely to have influenced how Thoreau and *Walden* have come to
be perceived and remembered.

Nonetheless, *Walden* is not a simple account of the two years, two
months and two days Thoreau spent living in the woods and it should
This apparent contradiction creates a full character entitled to his ambiguities and complexities. Thoreau's aloneness, as much as his society, is a literary fabrication. Thus, the first part of the inaugurating paragraph of *Walden*—"I lived alone, in the woods" (325)<fnref n="59" />—also needs to be questioned since his solitude is very relative. The solitude he depicts in *Walden* and performs at Walden is one of individual choice, it is "a free decision to live apart from others," in the phrase of Tiberghien (*Notes* 96). Through his persona, the author creates a fictional character who claims his right to desire solitude without ever feeling lonely or guilty:

> I find it wholesome to be alone the greater part of the time. To be in company, even with the best, is soon wearisome and dissipating. I love to be alone. I never found the companion that was so companionable as solitude. (*Walden* 430)

His motivation being Emersonian "self-reliance," he never claims to reject society altogether and does not favor solitude *per se*; he means to keep it at arm's length to have a consented association to it or as Doumet phrases it: "Some distances are ways of proximity" (25). Our physical remoteness in space creates a spiritual and philosophical closeness able to form a community.

There is an apparent gap between the assertion of his love of solitude and his declaration of love for his contemporaries: "I think that I love society as much as most [...]. I am naturally no hermit" (*Walden* 434). This constant movement between moments of solitude and moments spent with others relies on the notion of choice. That is why his going to the village usually appears as an individual decision: "Every day or two I strolled to the village to hear some of the gossip [...] which, taken in homœopathic doses, was really [...] refreshing" (*Walden* 456). The relative remoteness of his home offers him enough space to be able to choose. Here again, he keeps journalistic opinions and popular rumors away so as to keep the agitation of his contemporaries at a distance and only

<footnote n="59">⁵⁹ My emphasis.</footnote>
This apparent contradiction creates a full character entitled to his ambiguities and complexities. Thoreau's aloneness, as much as his society, is a literary fabrication. Thus, the first part of the inaugurating paragraph of *Walden*—"I lived alone, in the woods" (325)<fnref n="59" />—also needs to be questioned since his solitude is very relative. The solitude he depicts in *Walden* and performs at Walden is one of individual choice, it is "a free decision to live apart from others," in the phrase of Tiberghien (Notes 96). Through his persona, the author creates a fictional character who claims his right to desire solitude without ever feeling lonely or guilty:

> I find it wholesome to be alone the greater part of the time. To be in company, even with the best, is soon wearisome and dissipating. I love to be alone. I never found the companion that was so companionable as solitude. (*Walden* 430)

His motivation being Emersonian "self-reliance," he never claims to reject society altogether and does not favor solitude *per se*; he means to keep it at arm's length to have a consented association to it or as Doumet phrases it: "Some distances are ways of proximity" (25). Our physical remoteness in space creates a spiritual and philosophical closeness able to form a community.

There is an apparent gap between the assertion of his love of solitude and his declaration of love for his contemporaries: "I think that I love society as much as most [...]. I am naturally no hermit" (Walden 434). This constant movement between moments of solitude and moments spent with others relies on the notion of choice. That is why his going to the village usually appears as an individual decision: "Every day or two I strolled to the village to hear some of the gossip [...] which, taken in homœopathic doses, was really [...] refreshing" (Walden 456). The relative remoteness of his home offers him enough space to be able to choose. Here again, he keeps journalistic opinions and popular rumors away so as to keep the agitation of his contemporaries at a distance and only

<footnote n="59">⁵⁹ My emphasis.</footnote>
gleans some information when needed before being "let out through
the rear avenues, and so escap[ing] to the woods again" (Walden 457).
He goes back to his solitude in the woods once his thirst for knowledge
and novelty is quenched.

Society, as much as solitude, can only be the result of choice
on his part, but also on others'. Whoever wants to come and visit him
has to be as strong-minded as Thoreau: "Who should come to my
lodge this morning but a true Homeric or Paphlagonian man" (Walden
437). The author only wants to be available for quality and meaningful
relationships:

> I met several [people] there [at Walden] under more favorable circumstances than I could anywhere else. But fewer came to see me on trivial business. In this respect, my company was winnowed by my mere distance from town. I had withdrawn so far within the great ocean of solitude, into which the rivers of society empty, that for the most part, so far as my needs were concerned, only the finest sediment was deposited around me. (Walden 437)

He prefers important discussions and does not care for mundane encounters. With Thoreau being "extra-vagant" (Walden 580),<fnref n="60" /> his home attracts less trivial visits and preserves his relationships and friendships with those who are willing to walk to his home. Marilyn R. Chandler explains in *Dwelling in the Text: Houses in American Fiction* that

> Thoreau is not situated so as to be dropped in on by the casual passerby but must be sought out by one explicitly desiring what simple goods he may find there. Like Thoreau's other exercises of virtue, hospitality is as stringently held to his own terms as it is magnanimous within those terms; the visitor must come two miles out of town, thereby meeting Thoreau more than halfway. (31)

<footnote n="60">⁶⁰ Thoreau's emphasis.</footnote>
gleans some information when needed before being "let out through
the rear avenues, and so escap[ing] to the woods again" (Walden 457).
He goes back to his solitude in the woods once his thirst for knowledge
and novelty is quenched.

Society, as much as solitude, can only be the result of choice
on his part, but also on others'. Whoever wants to come and visit him
has to be as strong-minded as Thoreau: "Who should come to my
lodge this morning but a true Homeric or Paphlagonian man" (Walden
437). The author only wants to be available for quality and meaningful
relationships:

> I met several [people] there [at Walden] under more favorable circumstances than I could anywhere else. But fewer came to see me on trivial business. In this respect, my company was winnowed by my mere distance from town. I had withdrawn so far within the great ocean of solitude, into which the rivers of society empty, that for the most part, so far as my needs were concerned, only the finest sediment was deposited around me. (Walden 437)

He prefers important discussions and does not care for mundane encounters. With Thoreau being "extra-vagant" (Walden 580),<fnref n="60" /> his home attracts less trivial visits and preserves his relationships and friendships with those who are willing to walk to his home. Marilyn R. Chandler explains in *Dwelling in the Text: Houses in American Fiction* that

> Thoreau is not situated so as to be dropped in on by the casual passerby but must be sought out by one explicitly desiring what simple goods he may find there. Like Thoreau's other exercises of virtue, hospitality is as stringently held to his own terms as it is magnanimous within those terms; the visitor must come two miles out of town, thereby meeting Thoreau more than halfway. (31)

<footnote n="60">⁶⁰ Thoreau's emphasis.</footnote>
Thoreau's home is the reflection of this lifestyle; between society and solitude, he makes individual connections to others and expects them to be as demanding as he is in terms of the quality of human relations.

## 2.3 A humble, welcoming abode

Thoreau's living and writing at Walden nourish themselves also from the quality of his guests. Making Walden cabin his home, he creates new ways of life, new rules, new norms and rules or "nomos." The main rule in a home is that of hospitality. Enjoying the presence of others and good conversations, he keeps himself ready for any fresh and new encounter. He decides to keep an open mind, as his guests need to be able to make themselves at home but also remember the house rules of someone who lives alone. For example, an occasional guest can come and break bread with him and it would be easy for them to cook together as they talk. Yet, Thoreau insists that "if twenty came and sat in [his] house there was nothing said about dinner, [...] [they] naturally practised abstinence; and this was [...] the most proper and considerate course" (Walden 435). Provided these basic house-keeping rules are followed, the author feels free to get close to his visitors: "I could entertain thus a thousand as well as twenty" (Walden 435-436). These hospitality rules regulate both his sense of sympathy and his guests' sense of respect and abiding by his domestic rules. He concludes: "I sat at a table where were rich food and wine in abundance, and obsequious attendance, but sincerity and truth were not; and I went away hungry from the inhospitable board" (Walden 585). He advocates a life of simplicity in home economics, and hospitality is the art of simplicity in creating warmth. Unfortunately, true hospitality is a virtue that has been lost on most people: "Nowadays the host does not admit you to his hearth, but has got the mason to build one for yourself somewhere in his alley, and hospitality is the art of keeping you at the greatest distance" (Walden 516-517).<fnref n="61" /> However remote from his neighbors, his cabin remains a convivial abode. Welcoming someone into one's home implies both closeness and respect of boundaries. And, since the decision to stay by himself or to be with others is one of personal

<footnote n="61">⁶¹ Thoreau’s emphasis.</footnote>
Thoreau's home is the reflection of this lifestyle; between society and solitude, he makes individual connections to others and expects them to be as demanding as he is in terms of the quality of human relations.

## 2.3 A humble, welcoming abode

Thoreau's living and writing at Walden nourish themselves also from the quality of his guests. Making Walden cabin his home, he creates new ways of life, new rules, new norms and rules or "nomos." The main rule in a home is that of hospitality. Enjoying the presence of others and good conversations, he keeps himself ready for any fresh and new encounter. He decides to keep an open mind, as his guests need to be able to make themselves at home but also remember the house rules of someone who lives alone. For example, an occasional guest can come and break bread with him and it would be easy for them to cook together as they talk. Yet, Thoreau insists that "if twenty came and sat in [his] house there was nothing said about dinner, [...] [they] naturally practised abstinence; and this was [...] the most proper and considerate course" (Walden 435). Provided these basic house-keeping rules are followed, the author feels free to get close to his visitors: "I could entertain thus a thousand as well as twenty" (Walden 435-436). These hospitality rules regulate both his sense of sympathy and his guests' sense of respect and abiding by his domestic rules. He concludes: "I sat at a table where were rich food and wine in abundance, and obsequious attendance, but sincerity and truth were not; and I went away hungry from the inhospitable board" (Walden 585). He advocates a life of simplicity in home economics, and hospitality is the art of simplicity in creating warmth. Unfortunately, true hospitality is a virtue that has been lost on most people: "Nowadays the host does not admit you to his hearth, but has got the mason to build one for yourself somewhere in his alley, and hospitality is the art of keeping you at the greatest distance" (Walden 516-517).<fnref n="61" /> However remote from his neighbors, his cabin remains a convivial abode. Welcoming someone into one's home implies both closeness and respect of boundaries. And, since the decision to stay by himself or to be with others is one of personal

<footnote n="61">⁶¹ Thoreau’s emphasis.</footnote>
freedom and autonomous choice, the cabin's sole inhabitant needs to remain vigilant so as not to mistake charity or "hospitalality" (Walden 443),<fnref n="62" /> for true hospitality. Although Thoreau welcomes visitors of all sorts, he is not willing to give up—not the mere ownership, but the true "authorship" of his home as a place to live, read and write but also as a fictionalized place. His home has to remain a safe space for his individuality according to his *nomos*.

Hospitality, friendship and solitude inextricably belong together at Walden and in *Walden*. In a most-often quoted passage of *Walden*, Thoreau describes: "I had three chairs in my house; one for solitude, two for friendship, three for society" (434). The image of the chairs fitting together like Russian dolls shows the extent of Thoreau's adaptability. Society is represented as containing friendship, which itself contains solitude. Channing's point of view on the matter is more practical as demonstrated by this comment in his biography of Thoreau: "It was just large enough for one [...]. Two was one too much in his house" (7). There is a fine line between conviviality and promiscuity. Being small (ten-by-fifteen foot), Thoreau's house is definitively a place for only one to live in. Indeed, when a visitor shows up, the small dimensions of his house become impossible to forget, thus influencing interactions:

> As the conversation began to assume a loftier and grander tone, we gradually shoved our chairs farther apart till they touched the wall in opposite corners, and then commonly there was not room enough. (Walden 434-435)

The dimensions of his small house—an abode for both society and solitude—are conditions of the blossoming of the author's social life as well as creative mind. Living in his Walden cabin, Thoreau sets up norms to accommodate both his needs for solitude and society. His living experience at Walden puts intimacy in tension with openness, thus generating a constant movement in his mind and home.

<footnote n="62">⁶² Thoreauvian neologism created by combining the words “hospital” and “hospitality”.</footnote>
freedom and autonomous choice, the cabin's sole inhabitant needs to remain vigilant so as not to mistake charity or "hospitalality" (Walden 443),<fnref n="62" /> for true hospitality. Although Thoreau welcomes visitors of all sorts, he is not willing to give up—not the mere ownership, but the true "authorship" of his home as a place to live, read and write but also as a fictionalized place. His home has to remain a safe space for his individuality according to his *nomos*.

Hospitality, friendship and solitude inextricably belong together at Walden and in *Walden*. In a most-often quoted passage of *Walden*, Thoreau describes: "I had three chairs in my house; one for solitude, two for friendship, three for society" (434). The image of the chairs fitting together like Russian dolls shows the extent of Thoreau's adaptability. Society is represented as containing friendship, which itself contains solitude. Channing's point of view on the matter is more practical as demonstrated by this comment in his biography of Thoreau: "It was just large enough for one [...]. Two was one too much in his house" (7). There is a fine line between conviviality and promiscuity. Being small (ten-by-fifteen foot), Thoreau's house is definitively a place for only one to live in. Indeed, when a visitor shows up, the small dimensions of his house become impossible to forget, thus influencing interactions:

> As the conversation began to assume a loftier and grander tone, we gradually shoved our chairs farther apart till they touched the wall in opposite corners, and then commonly there was not room enough. (Walden 434-435)

The dimensions of his small house—an abode for both society and solitude—are conditions of the blossoming of the author's social life as well as creative mind. Living in his Walden cabin, Thoreau sets up norms to accommodate both his needs for solitude and society. His living experience at Walden puts intimacy in tension with openness, thus generating a constant movement in his mind and home.

<footnote n="62">⁶² Thoreauvian neologism created by combining the words “hospital” and “hospitality”.</footnote>
# 3. Immobility and Movement

## 3.1 The fluidity of home economics

The material organization of his cabin matters for it conditions the interior disposition of Thoreau's ethics as the author of *Walden*. As home-building equates self-construction, he needs a place that is not cluttered with so many objects and furniture that either they all become useless or they prevent him from being an active and creative writer. In order to have space, he wants to cut down to the bare minimum and get rid of the superfluous; so when a lady offers him a mat, he refuses it and reflects: "It is best to avoid the beginnings of evil" (*Walden* 375-376). A doormat would materialize the difference between the inside and the outside of his home. The objects that we surround ourselves with and the ethics we live by are connected. Chandler explains about the use of the word "evil" that it

> throws so simple a thing as a doormat into the realm of universal ethical principles. No possession is neutral because possession itself is a moral issue; similarly, no structure we build for ourselves is neutral because time and space are part of the economy of the universe. (39)

His ethics, domesticity and economy of life are inextricably intertwined in the sense that he refuses to let his interior become over-adorned, and resists any addition of unnecessary items that would make his living impractical. Simplicity is the keyword here. Thoreau describes his cabin as having "[a]ll the attractions of a house [...] concentrated in one room" (*Walden* 515). Sophistication does not suit him and this house is that of an honest and simple man. Chandler makes the following analysis:

> Such architectural ideals are borrowed directly from moral categories: the openness of a dwelling without partitions represents a kind of honesty; the absence of any unnecessary decoration, humility and simplicity; the enduring materials, moral toughness; and the relative inattention to comforts, asceticism. (30-31)
# 3. Immobility and Movement

## 3.1 The fluidity of home economics

The material organization of his cabin matters for it conditions the interior disposition of Thoreau's ethics as the author of *Walden*. As home-building equates self-construction, he needs a place that is not cluttered with so many objects and furniture that either they all become useless or they prevent him from being an active and creative writer. In order to have space, he wants to cut down to the bare minimum and get rid of the superfluous; so when a lady offers him a mat, he refuses it and reflects: "It is best to avoid the beginnings of evil" (*Walden* 375-376). A doormat would materialize the difference between the inside and the outside of his home. The objects that we surround ourselves with and the ethics we live by are connected. Chandler explains about the use of the word "evil" that it

> throws so simple a thing as a doormat into the realm of universal ethical principles. No possession is neutral because possession itself is a moral issue; similarly, no structure we build for ourselves is neutral because time and space are part of the economy of the universe. (39)

His ethics, domesticity and economy of life are inextricably intertwined in the sense that he refuses to let his interior become over-adorned, and resists any addition of unnecessary items that would make his living impractical. Simplicity is the keyword here. Thoreau describes his cabin as having "[a]ll the attractions of a house [...] concentrated in one room" (*Walden* 515). Sophistication does not suit him and this house is that of an honest and simple man. Chandler makes the following analysis:

> Such architectural ideals are borrowed directly from moral categories: the openness of a dwelling without partitions represents a kind of honesty; the absence of any unnecessary decoration, humility and simplicity; the enduring materials, moral toughness; and the relative inattention to comforts, asceticism. (30-31)
His home is a place of freedom of thought, will and action where anything is possible. His house has to remain functional for him to be able to live his Walden experience freely and produce his *Walden* narrative.

Thoreau's description of his Walden cabin matches almost every aspect of the picture he paints of his ideal home. A simple house can also be a family house or a house of friends provided each resident lives by the rule of simplicity. This co-habitation induces a form of promiscuity that amounts to agreeable social interactions, collective participation and harmonious living. Furthermore, for Thoreau, all one needs is visible and accessible so as to never prevent one from doing what he or she needs. This vision of a house reduced to the bare minimum can accommodate many people:

> I sometimes dream of a larger and more populous house, standing in a golden age, of enduring materials [...] which shall still consist of only one room, a vast, rude, substantial, primitive hall, without ceiling or plastering, with bare rafters and purlins supporting a sort of lower heaven over one's head. (Walden 516)

The occupants of the house would be sheltered by a robust and durable home that would also have its ceiling and roof open to the skies above. It is as safe as it lets its occupants be free. Objects and people coexist in a fluid environment. This safe haven built in the image of its owner communicates with the outside world too.

## 3.2 The porosity of home imagination

Thoreau's home is a porous space, both architecturally and symbolically. The walls of the cabin are thin enough for it to be permeable to the natural environment. Although it is a sturdier shelter than his tent or his boat have ever been, the cabin is not ready for the first winter and is therefore open to the natural winds. Materially, it remains precarious and does not fully withstand the natural elements. Symbolically, the threshold of the cabin is easily crossed as well. Harrison believes that since the cabin is "made of the forest's offerings" (226), it enables Thoreau to be in contact with people and nature. It is an interface that marks only approximately the frontier between the inside and the
His home is a place of freedom of thought, will and action where anything is possible. His house has to remain functional for him to be able to live his Walden experience freely and produce his *Walden* narrative.

Thoreau's description of his Walden cabin matches almost every aspect of the picture he paints of his ideal home. A simple house can also be a family house or a house of friends provided each resident lives by the rule of simplicity. This co-habitation induces a form of promiscuity that amounts to agreeable social interactions, collective participation and harmonious living. Furthermore, for Thoreau, all one needs is visible and accessible so as to never prevent one from doing what he or she needs. This vision of a house reduced to the bare minimum can accommodate many people:

> I sometimes dream of a larger and more populous house, standing in a golden age, of enduring materials [...] which shall still consist of only one room, a vast, rude, substantial, primitive hall, without ceiling or plastering, with bare rafters and purlins supporting a sort of lower heaven over one's head. (Walden 516)

The occupants of the house would be sheltered by a robust and durable home that would also have its ceiling and roof open to the skies above. It is as safe as it lets its occupants be free. Objects and people coexist in a fluid environment. This safe haven built in the image of its owner communicates with the outside world too.

## 3.2 The porosity of home imagination

Thoreau's home is a porous space, both architecturally and symbolically. The walls of the cabin are thin enough for it to be permeable to the natural environment. Although it is a sturdier shelter than his tent or his boat have ever been, the cabin is not ready for the first winter and is therefore open to the natural winds. Materially, it remains precarious and does not fully withstand the natural elements. Symbolically, the threshold of the cabin is easily crossed as well. Harrison believes that since the cabin is "made of the forest's offerings" (226), it enables Thoreau to be in contact with people and nature. It is an interface that marks only approximately the frontier between the inside and the
outside. As Tiberghien puts it, "in cabins, the interior-exterior polarity, which is constitutive of the house, does not exist. The hut is all exterior: it extends into nature just as nature penetrates it from one side to the other" (Notes 38). From within the cabin, there is obvious communication and interaction with the outside world. The difference between the two poles is so tenuous that the inside can easily become the outside. For example, Thoreau would enjoy scrupulously setting all of his furniture outside in order to clean his cabin with water and sand:

> It was pleasant to see my whole household effects out on the grass [...]. They seemed glad to get out themselves [...]. It was worth the while to see the sun shine on these things, and hear the free wind blow on them. (Walden 412)

Being personified, his furniture seems to belong to the outside more than it does to the inside. Every piece of it has integrated back into the natural world, as if reclaiming their very nature "because they once stood in their midst" (Walden 412-413). The furniture of the cabin seems eager to merge with the outside natural world. Thus, the porosity of Thoreau's home creates a passage from the inside to the outside, to the point that the bean-field, the woods, the pond, the village, the train all become a part of his home: "My 'best' room, however, my withdrawing room, always ready for company, on whose carpet the sun rarely fell, was the pine wood behind my house" (Walden 435). The outside world is in the continuity of his cabin which stimulates his creative imagination.

As a consequence, his home is swept by the winds of imagination that carry with them impressions of faraway lands. Thoreau's dreams and thoughts are constantly stimulated by the winds that come to caress his home with their never-ending heavenly music:

> To my imagination it retained throughout the day more or less of this auroral character [...] The winds which passed over my dwelling were such as sweep over the ridges of mountains, bearing the broken strains, or celestial parts only, of terrestrial music. The morning wind forever blows, the poem of creation is uninterrupted. (Walden 390)
outside. As Tiberghien puts it, "in cabins, the interior-exterior polarity, which is constitutive of the house, does not exist. The hut is all exterior: it extends into nature just as nature penetrates it from one side to the other" (Notes 38). From within the cabin, there is obvious communication and interaction with the outside world. The difference between the two poles is so tenuous that the inside can easily become the outside. For example, Thoreau would enjoy scrupulously setting all of his furniture outside in order to clean his cabin with water and sand:

> It was pleasant to see my whole household effects out on the grass [...]. They seemed glad to get out themselves [...]. It was worth the while to see the sun shine on these things, and hear the free wind blow on them. (Walden 412)

Being personified, his furniture seems to belong to the outside more than it does to the inside. Every piece of it has integrated back into the natural world, as if reclaiming their very nature "because they once stood in their midst" (Walden 412-413). The furniture of the cabin seems eager to merge with the outside natural world. Thus, the porosity of Thoreau's home creates a passage from the inside to the outside, to the point that the bean-field, the woods, the pond, the village, the train all become a part of his home: "My 'best' room, however, my withdrawing room, always ready for company, on whose carpet the sun rarely fell, was the pine wood behind my house" (Walden 435). The outside world is in the continuity of his cabin which stimulates his creative imagination.

As a consequence, his home is swept by the winds of imagination that carry with them impressions of faraway lands. Thoreau's dreams and thoughts are constantly stimulated by the winds that come to caress his home with their never-ending heavenly music:

> To my imagination it retained throughout the day more or less of this auroral character [...] The winds which passed over my dwelling were such as sweep over the ridges of mountains, bearing the broken strains, or celestial parts only, of terrestrial music. The morning wind forever blows, the poem of creation is uninterrupted. (Walden 390)
Living in the cabin is an invitation to travel, be it physically or mentally. From his Walden home protected in a natural setting, Thoreau travels safely in his mind and dreams of faraway lands. Following Marcel's definition in *Traité de la cabane solitaire*, "the cabin is *par excellence* the place where one can dream" (13). Thoreau's imagination wanders freely as he watches the horizon before him: "Though the view from my door was still more contracted, I did not feel crowded or confined in the least. There was pasture enough for my imagination" (*Walden* 392). His mind takes him so far that he even dialogues with the universe and travels in time:

> I dwelt nearer to those parts of the universe and to those eras in history which had most attracted me [...]. I discovered that my house actually had its site in such a withdrawn, but forever new and unprofaned, part of the universe. (*Walden* 392)

The Walden cabin also holds a central position in his conception of the cosmos. With his home symbolically standing at the center of his physical and imaginary world, the cosmos seems to make sense to the author. Doumet observes that the man who lives alone in a cabin creates a world "totally self-centered in the sense that all the objects placed at equal distance from the subject form around him a circle of which he is naturally entitled to think of himself as the center" (26). The interiority of Thoreau and his cabin's merge together with the exteriority of the outside natural world which becomes the object of his exploration and fantasy.

In building his Walden cabin and writing *Walden*, Thoreau found a way to connect to the cosmos. Home-building is a trope for his conception of the universe. The Emersonian "Over-soul" is always here, as a solid foundation both of his wood cabin and his cosmology explaining reality as we know it. When his contemporaries inquire about his feeling possibly lonely, he answers: "Why should I feel lonely? is not our planet in the Milky Way?" (*Walden* 428). Walden is an earthly dwelling that enables him to communicate with transcendence. As Doumet points out:
Living in the cabin is an invitation to travel, be it physically or mentally. From his Walden home protected in a natural setting, Thoreau travels safely in his mind and dreams of faraway lands. Following Marcel's definition in *Traité de la cabane solitaire*, "the cabin is *par excellence* the place where one can dream" (13). Thoreau's imagination wanders freely as he watches the horizon before him: "Though the view from my door was still more contracted, I did not feel crowded or confined in the least. There was pasture enough for my imagination" (Walden 392). His mind takes him so far that he even dialogues with the universe and travels in time:

> I dwelt nearer to those parts of the universe and to those eras in history which had most attracted me [...]. I discovered that my house actually had its site in such a withdrawn, but forever new and unprofaned, part of the universe. (Walden 392)

The Walden cabin also holds a central position in his conception of the cosmos. With his home symbolically standing at the center of his physical and imaginary world, the cosmos seems to make sense to the author. Doumet observes that the man who lives alone in a cabin creates a world "totally self-centered in the sense that all the objects placed at equal distance from the subject form around him a circle of which he is naturally entitled to think of himself as the center" (26). The interiority of Thoreau and his cabin's merge together with the exteriority of the outside natural world which becomes the object of his exploration and fantasy.

In building his Walden cabin and writing Walden, Thoreau found a way to connect to the cosmos. Home-building is a trope for his conception of the universe. The Emersonian "Over-soul" is always here, as a solid foundation both of his wood cabin and his cosmology explaining reality as we know it. When his contemporaries inquire about his feeling possibly lonely, he answers: "Why should I feel lonely? is not our planet in the Milky Way?" (Walden 428). Walden is an earthly dwelling that enables him to communicate with transcendence. As Doumet points out:
This is undoubtedly the case for all the great living experiences that, by settling on a center, they build their own cosmos. [...] So much so that this *Nature* so often invoked by Thoreau [...] designates not so much the natural given as an edifice of thought always in the making, as a construction. (21)<fnref n="63" />

His individuality dissolves into the infinity of the universe and becomes one with it. In his conclusion, Thoreau muses: “Direct your eye inward, and you'll find / A thousand regions in your mind / Yet undiscovered. Travel them, and be / Expert in home-cosmography” (*Walden* 577). Living and writing in his cabin, Thoreau puts the cosmos in a nutshell.

### 3.3 An eternal home for the cosmos

Thoreau left Walden on September 6, 1847; once his experiment was over, Emerson rented Wyman Lot to his gardener Hugh Whelan who intended to “move the house to the beanfield, [...] line the cellar, manure the field, build an addition twice as big as the original dwelling, and dig a well” (Barksdale, *Walden Pond* 92). Yet, Whelan barely got started and disappeared from Concord, leaving behind him a large new cellar hole in the ground. In his article, Barksdale Maynard informs us that

> eventually [Thoreau's Walden house] was moved to a farm where it served as a grain storehouse until being dismantled in 1868. No photograph was taken of it, nor is there a fully reliable sketch; Thoreau complained of slight inaccuracies in its depiction on the frontispiece of *Walden* [...]. The remains of its foundations at the pond were discovered in the course of a 1945-46 archaeological investigation by Roland Wells Robbins [...]. Several replicas of the house stand in the Concord area today [...], and the actual site, on a gentle hillside in the wooded Walden Pond State Reservation, is marked by granite posts. (“Thoreau's House” 307)

<footnote n="63">⁶³ Doumet’s emphasis.</footnote>
This is undoubtedly the case for all the great living experiences that, by settling on a center, they build their own cosmos. [...] So much so that this *Nature* so often invoked by Thoreau [...] designates not so much the natural given as an edifice of thought always in the making, as a construction. (21)<fnref n="63" />

His individuality dissolves into the infinity of the universe and becomes one with it. In his conclusion, Thoreau muses: “Direct your eye inward, and you'll find / A thousand regions in your mind / Yet undiscovered. Travel them, and be / Expert in home-cosmography” (*Walden* 577). Living and writing in his cabin, Thoreau puts the cosmos in a nutshell.

### 3.3 An eternal home for the cosmos

Thoreau left Walden on September 6, 1847; once his experiment was over, Emerson rented Wyman Lot to his gardener Hugh Whelan who intended to “move the house to the beanfield, [...] line the cellar, manure the field, build an addition twice as big as the original dwelling, and dig a well” (Barksdale, *Walden Pond* 92). Yet, Whelan barely got started and disappeared from Concord, leaving behind him a large new cellar hole in the ground. In his article, Barksdale Maynard informs us that

> eventually [Thoreau's Walden house] was moved to a farm where it served as a grain storehouse until being dismantled in 1868. No photograph was taken of it, nor is there a fully reliable sketch; Thoreau complained of slight inaccuracies in its depiction on the frontispiece of *Walden* [...]. The remains of its foundations at the pond were discovered in the course of a 1945-46 archaeological investigation by Roland Wells Robbins [...]. Several replicas of the house stand in the Concord area today [...], and the actual site, on a gentle hillside in the wooded Walden Pond State Reservation, is marked by granite posts. (“Thoreau's House” 307)

<footnote n="63">⁶³ Doumet’s emphasis.</footnote>
Thoreau's Walden home has physically disappeared. Yet, its symbolic location is still perfectly vivid in the minds of nature writing lovers.

Walden cabin is a stepping stone in American nature writing. Although ephemeral, his cabin "would be honored as the foundation of a new generation of environmental thinking" (Dassow Walls 201). The cabin later became a site of pilgrimage and a prototype for imitation; Buell explains in "The Thoreauian Pilgrimage: The Structure of an American Cult":

> we find a proliferation of homesteading experiments during the past century that claim Thoreau as inspiration, directly or obliquely. These begin about a generation after Thoreau's death. (186)

In fact, he is even considered "The Patron Saint of Tiny Houses" by April Anson who describes the tiny house movement as "a social and architectural trend that advocates living simply in small spaces" and who explains that "the term is generally reserved for the smaller transportable units approximately the size of Thoreau's cabin" (331). Yet, one must keep in mind Thoreau's warning against all kinds of imitation. We are all original individuals and, as such, should only try to assert our individuality and never mimic someone else's:

> I would not have any one adopt my mode of living on any account [...] but I would have each one be very careful to find out and pursue his own way, and not his father's or his mother's or his neighbor's instead. (Walden 378)

His home is thus an artistic creation in itself and as such, it is meant to be interpreted not copied. One must find food for thought and imagination in his stay and should by no means try to imitate him. Everyone should build a Walden cabin of his or her own and eventually use it as home in which to live and from which to write.

The cabin has both a spatial and a temporal dimension. Thoreau's Walden stay was only meant to be transient. According to Richardson's interpretation in *Henry Thoreau: A Life of the Mind*: "He might be leading a primitive life, but it was being led in a backyard laboratory. The value of
Thoreau's Walden home has physically disappeared. Yet, its symbolic location is still perfectly vivid in the minds of nature writing lovers.

Walden cabin is a stepping stone in American nature writing. Although ephemeral, his cabin "would be honored as the foundation of a new generation of environmental thinking" (Dassow Walls 201). The cabin later became a site of pilgrimage and a prototype for imitation; Buell explains in "The Thoreauian Pilgrimage: The Structure of an American Cult":

> we find a proliferation of homesteading experiments during the past century that claim Thoreau as inspiration, directly or obliquely. These begin about a generation after Thoreau's death. (186)

In fact, he is even considered "The Patron Saint of Tiny Houses" by April Anson who describes the tiny house movement as "a social and architectural trend that advocates living simply in small spaces" and who explains that "the term is generally reserved for the smaller transportable units approximately the size of Thoreau's cabin" (331). Yet, one must keep in mind Thoreau's warning against all kinds of imitation. We are all original individuals and, as such, should only try to assert our individuality and never mimic someone else's:

> I would not have any one adopt my mode of living on any account [...] but I would have each one be very careful to find out and pursue his own way, and not his father's or his mother's or his neighbor's instead. (Walden 378)

His home is thus an artistic creation in itself and as such, it is meant to be interpreted not copied. One must find food for thought and imagination in his stay and should by no means try to imitate him. Everyone should build a Walden cabin of his or her own and eventually use it as home in which to live and from which to write.

The cabin has both a spatial and a temporal dimension. Thoreau's Walden stay was only meant to be transient. According to Richardson's interpretation in *Henry Thoreau: A Life of the Mind*: "He might be leading a primitive life, but it was being led in a backyard laboratory. The value of
the Walden stay is its experimental, representative or symbolic character" (171). The cabin proper was as transitory as the length of his stay. Harrison comments: "He enters the woods of Walden in order to learn how to be transitory there. [...] [H]e never presumed that his sojourn in the woods of Walden could serve as a permanent model for dwelling" (230). This temporary experience is only transformative in so far as it is concentrated in time and space. Both solid and fragile, the cabin is a transitional space. Living at Walden was a personal experience that he continued to carry even after his stay was over. According to Dassow Walls:

> [I]n a sense, he never did leave. Walden stayed with him for the rest of his life, anchoring his reborn sense of self-independent, solitary even in the midst of crowds, grounded in the splash and spring of bedrock nature. (231)

In *Walden*, Thoreau does not mention what happens to his cabin afterwards. This oversight is very telling as it provides an open end to the book and to the experiment. One can more easily appropriate metaphorically the fictional cabin of *Walden* in order to eventually let oneself be inspired to build "a cabin of one's own."

Thoreau's Walden cabin is "a room of his own" which is both a geographical and intimate anchor point. It is a place of co-construction of the writing gesture and the theoretical elaboration. It is the home of life, creation, and imagination where *nomos, logos and locus* co-create each other. Thoreau belongs in Walden; his roots have been buried deep in the Walden soil since his childhood. Building Walden cabin and writing *Walden* are co-created gestures. The cabin is only made possible through the intervention of his friends from whom he inherits both materially and symbolically. Thoreau is also no hermit as he is connected to Concord and has regular visitors. He seeks society and solitude on his own individual terms and thus has a choice over his social interactions. His home often becomes a hospitable place for discussion and friendship. The cabin is both an anchorage point and a crossing point that stimulates creation as
the Walden stay is its experimental, representative or symbolic character" (171). The cabin proper was as transitory as the length of his stay. Harrison comments: "He enters the woods of Walden in order to learn how to be transitory there. [...] [H]e never presumed that his sojourn in the woods of Walden could serve as a permanent model for dwelling" (230). This temporary experience is only transformative in so far as it is concentrated in time and space. Both solid and fragile, the cabin is a transitional space. Living at Walden was a personal experience that he continued to carry even after his stay was over. According to Dassow Walls:

> [I]n a sense, he never did leave. Walden stayed with him for the rest of his life, anchoring his reborn sense of self-independent, solitary even in the midst of crowds, grounded in the splash and spring of bedrock nature. (231)

In *Walden*, Thoreau does not mention what happens to his cabin afterwards. This oversight is very telling as it provides an open end to the book and to the experiment. One can more easily appropriate metaphorically the fictional cabin of *Walden* in order to eventually let oneself be inspired to build "a cabin of one's own."

Thoreau's Walden cabin is "a room of his own" which is both a geographical and intimate anchor point. It is a place of co-construction of the writing gesture and the theoretical elaboration. It is the home of life, creation, and imagination where *nomos, logos and locus* co-create each other. Thoreau belongs in Walden; his roots have been buried deep in the Walden soil since his childhood. Building Walden cabin and writing *Walden* are co-created gestures. The cabin is only made possible through the intervention of his friends from whom he inherits both materially and symbolically. Thoreau is also no hermit as he is connected to Concord and has regular visitors. He seeks society and solitude on his own individual terms and thus has a choice over his social interactions. His home often becomes a hospitable place for discussion and friendship. The cabin is both an anchorage point and a crossing point that stimulates creation as
it is a simple home with plenty of room to think. In this tension between immobility and movement, everyone should build a home of their own that is both robust and permeable enough to enable us to communicate with the outside world and the universe at large. Walden's cabin is both an ephemeral earthly workshop and an eternal home for the cosmos, leaving an eternal heritage for the future of nature writing.

## Works cited

ANONYMOUS. "An American Diogenes." *Emerson and Thoreau The Contemporary Reviews*. Ed. Joel Myerson. Cambridge UP, 1992, p. 409.

ANSON, April. "The Patron Saint of Tiny Houses." *Henry David Thoreau in Context*. Ed. James S. Finley. Cambridge UP, 2017.

BARKSDALE MAYNARD, William. "Emerson's 'Wyman Lot': Forgotten Context for Thoreau's House at Walden." *The Concord Saunterer*, vol. 12/13, 2004, pp. 59-84. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/23395273. Accessed 14 September 2021.

—. *Walden Pond: A History*. Oxford UP, 2004.

BRIGGS, Charles Frederick. "A Yankee Diogenes." *Emerson and Thoreau: The Contemporary Reviews*. Ed. Joel Myerson. Cambridge UP, 1992, p. 391.

BUELL, Lawrence. "The Thoreauvian Pilgrimage: The Structure of an American Cult." *American Literature*, vol. 61, n° 2, 1989, pp. 175-199. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/2926692. Accessed 14 September 2021.

CAVELL, Stanley. *The Senses of Walden*. 1972. San Francisco, North Point P, 1981.

CHANDLER, Marilyn R. *Dwelling in the Text: Houses in American Fiction*. Berkeley, U of California P, 1991.

CHANNING, William Ellery. *Thoreau: The Poet-Naturalist. With Memorial Verses*. Boston, Roberts Brothers, 1873.

D'AMORE, Maura. "Thoreau's Unreal Estate: Playing House at Walden Pond." *The New England Quarterly*, vol. 82, n° 1, 2009, pp. 56-79. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/20474707. Accessed 14 September 2021.

DASSOW WALLS, Laura. *Henry David Thoreau. A Life*. Chicago UP, 2017.

DOUGHERTY, James. "House-Building and House-Holding at Walden." *Christianity & Literature*, vol. 57, n° 2, March 2008, pp. 225-250.

DOUMET, Christian. *Trois huttes*. Saint Clément, Fata Morgana, 2010.
it is a simple home with plenty of room to think. In this tension between immobility and movement, everyone should build a home of their own that is both robust and permeable enough to enable us to communicate with the outside world and the universe at large. Walden's cabin is both an ephemeral earthly workshop and an eternal home for the cosmos, leaving an eternal heritage for the future of nature writing.

## Works cited

ANONYMOUS. "An American Diogenes." *Emerson and Thoreau: The Contemporary Reviews*. Ed. Joel Myerson. Cambridge UP, 1992, p. 409.

ANSON, April. "The Patron Saint of Tiny Houses." *Henry David Thoreau in Context*. Ed. James S. Finley. Cambridge UP, 2017.

BARKSDALE MAYNARD, William. "Emerson's 'Wyman Lot': Forgotten Context for Thoreau's House at Walden." *The Concord Saunterer*, vol. 12/13, 2004, pp. 59-84. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/23395273. Accessed 14 September 2021.

—. *Walden Pond: A History*. Oxford UP, 2004.

BRIGGS, Charles Frederick. "A Yankee Diogenes." *Emerson and Thoreau: The Contemporary Reviews*. Ed. Joel Myerson. Cambridge UP, 1992, p. 391.

BUELL, Lawrence. "The Thoreauvian Pilgrimage: The Structure of an American Cult." *American Literature*, vol. 61, n° 2, 1989, pp. 175-199. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/2926692. Accessed 14 September 2021.

CAVELL, Stanley. *The Senses of Walden*. 1972. San Francisco, North Point P, 1981.

CHANDLER, Marilyn R. *Dwelling in the Text: Houses in American Fiction*. Berkeley, U of California P, 1991.

CHANNING, William Ellery. *Thoreau: The Poet-Naturalist. With Memorial Verses*. Boston, Roberts Brothers, 1873.

D'AMORE, Maura. "Thoreau's Unreal Estate: Playing House at Walden Pond." *The New England Quarterly*, vol. 82, n° 1, 2009, pp. 56-79. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/20474707. Accessed 14 September 2021.

DASSOW WALLS, Laura. *Henry David Thoreau. A Life*. Chicago UP, 2017.

DOUGHERTY, James. "House-Building and House-Holding at Walden." *Christianity & Literature*, vol. 57, n° 2, March 2008, pp. 225-250.

DOUMET, Christian. *Trois huttes*. Saint Clément, Fata Morgana, 2010.
GARBER, Frederick. *Thoreau's Fable of Inscribing*. Princeton UP, 1991.

HARDING, Walter. *The Days of Henry Thoreau. A biography*. 1965. Princeton UP, 1982.

HARRISON, Robert Pogue. *Forests: The Shadow of Civilization*. U of Chicago P, 2009.

MARCEL, Antoine. *Traité de la cabane solitaire*. Paris, Arléa, 2006.

MARX, Leo. *The Machine in the Garden*. Oxford UP, 1964.

MYERSON, Joel, ed. *Emerson and Thoreau: The Contemporary Reviews*. Cambridge UP, 1992.

RICHARDSON, Robert D., Jr. *Henry David Thoreau: A Life of the Mind*. U of California P, 1996.

THOREAU, David Henry. *A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, Walden or Life in the Woods, The Maine Woods, Cape Cod*. Ed. Robert F. Sayre. New York, The Library of America, 1985.

—. *The Journal* (in fourteen volumes bound as two), vol. 1, 1837-1855 & vol. 2, 1855-1861. Ed. Bradford Torrey and Francis H. Allen. Mineola, Dover Publications, 2003.

—. *The Correspondence of Henry D. Thoreau, vol. 1 (1834-1848)*. Ed. Norbert N. Hudspeth. Princeton UP, 2013.

TIBERGHIEN, Gilles A. *Notes sur la nature, la cabane et quelques autres choses*. Paris, Félin, 2014.

—. *De la nécessité des cabanes*. Montrouge, Bayard, 2019.
GARBER, Frederick. *Thoreau's Fable of Inscribing*. Princeton UP, 1991.

HARDING, Walter. *The Days of Henry Thoreau. A biography*. 1965. Princeton UP, 1982.

HARRISON, Robert Pogue. *Forests: The Shadow of Civilization*. U of Chicago P, 2009.

MARCEL, Antoine. *Traité de la cabane solitaire*. Paris, Arléa, 2006.

MARX, Leo. *The Machine in the Garden*. Oxford UP, 1964.

MYERSON, Joel, ed. *Emerson and Thoreau: The Contemporary Reviews*. Cambridge UP, 1992.

RICHARDSON, Robert D., Jr. *Henry David Thoreau: A Life of the Mind*. U of California P, 1996.

THOREAU, David Henry. *A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, Walden or Life in the Woods, The Maine Woods, Cape Cod*. Ed. Robert F. Sayre. New York, The Library of America, 1985.

—. *The Journal* (in fourteen volumes bound as two), vol. 1, 1837-1855 & vol. 2, 1855-1861. Ed. Bradford Torrey and Francis H. Allen. Mineola, Dover Publications, 2003.

—. *The Correspondence of Henry D. Thoreau, vol. 1 (1834-1848)*. Ed. Norbert N. Hudspeth. Princeton UP, 2013.

TIBERGHIEN, Gilles A. *Notes sur la nature, la cabane et quelques autres choses*. Paris, Félin, 2014.

—. *De la nécessité des cabanes*. Montrouge, Bayard, 2019.
Chapter
3

Rented
Accommodation:
Houses in Novels
by Hawthorne and James,
Fitzgerald and West

William Blazek
Chapter
3

Rented
Accommodation:
Houses in Novels
by Hawthorne and James,
Fitzgerald and West

William Blazek
<figure><img src="image_7.png" /></figure>
<figure><img src="image_7.png" /></figure>
Chapter
3

I have lived in three different houses that I can claim to have owned (or rather co-owned), but over the course of my life I have also resided in at least nineteen rented houses or apartments, and my example is not unusual for an American. The United States ranks only 35th of 49 economically developed countries in home ownership, at 65 percent of the population.<fnref n="64" /> In a nation that mythologizes the home as the center of economic and social wellbeing, the fact that 35 percent of its housed population lives in rented accommodation suggests that residential mobility derives from a competing mythology of restless pursuit and the lure of the road, so renting property provides a solution in a vast country of temporary homes for a people familiar with spatial displacement who nevertheless yearn for a stable life in a settled place.

The novels that I want to explore all concern rented accommodation,
and I apply the word *rented* in the sense of "to hire or lease on a temporary
basis," as well as how we might think of something torn or split—or in
the archaic sense of something lacerated or wrenched apart, as in "rent
asunder," divided or pulled into pieces, whether physically or emotionally,
as in a breach in a relationship or union. The word *accommodation*
also has more than one denotation: from the Latin *accomodare*—to
fit or adapt one thing to another, to put in order—in English it means
an occupied living space, one's lodgings, as well as an arrangement,

<footnote n="64">⁶⁴ 2018-2020 statistics from https://tradingeconomics.com/country-list/home-ownership-rate.</footnote>
Chapter
3

I have lived in three different houses that I can claim to have owned (or rather co-owned), but over the course of my life I have also resided in at least nineteen rented houses or apartments, and my example is not unusual for an American. The United States ranks only 35th of 49 economically developed countries in home ownership, at 65 percent of the population.<fnref n="64" /> In a nation that mythologizes the home as the center of economic and social wellbeing, the fact that 35 percent of its housed population lives in rented accommodation suggests that residential mobility derives from a competing mythology of restless pursuit and the lure of the road, so renting property provides a solution in a vast country of temporary homes for a people familiar with spatial displacement who nevertheless yearn for a stable life in a settled place.

The novels that I want to explore all concern rented accommodation,
and I apply the word *rented* in the sense of "to hire or lease on a temporary
basis," as well as how we might think of something torn or split—or in
the archaic sense of something lacerated or wrenched apart, as in "rent
asunder," divided or pulled into pieces, whether physically or emotionally,
as in a breach in a relationship or union. The word *accommodation*
also has more than one denotation: from the Latin *accomodare*—to
fit or adapt one thing to another, to put in order—in English it means
an occupied living space, one's lodgings, as well as an arrangement,

<footnote n="64">⁶⁴ 2018-2020 statistics from https://tradingeconomics.com/country-list/home-ownership-rate.</footnote>
agreement, compromise, settlement, or understanding, as in "to reach an
accommodation" with someone. The secondary, less common definitions
in the phrase "rented accommodation" will be my main focus here, showing
how "rented" as in cracked, split, torn, or broken can be applied to texts
in which physical spaces such as rented rooms or houses symbolize
divisions between characters and within characters—divisions formed
by secrets, deceptions, and obsessions along with dissatisfaction and
hopelessness. As a further implication, to a degree narrative structure
and language itself are also rent apart in the texts. As for how the novels
accommodate *accommodation*, meaning an effort to achieve harmonious
solutions to plot dilemmas or to arrive at better understanding within or
between characters, such placid conclusions are not the outcomes of my
selected narratives. Instead, these textual rented accommodations more
often yield ambiguities and open up questions, sometimes as severe as
questions about human existence. In a world in which we have just a
short lease of life, a temporary residence in the flesh, the texts leave us
to ponder time and our mortality, to question the choices we make, the
morality of our decisions, and whether our aim in life is to be happy or to
be good.

I have joined together two pairs of texts for illustration of these
ideas: firstly Nathaniel Hawthorne's 1851 novel *The House of the Seven
Gables* and Henry James's 1888 novella *The Aspern Papers*, and secondly
F. Scott Fitzgerald's 1922 novel, *The Beautiful and Damned*, along with
Nathanael West's last novel, published in 1939, *The Day of the Locust*.<fnref n="65" />
Pairing the two nineteenth-century texts illustrates how an evolving
United States civilization is troubled by its history of conquest and
violence, and how it seeks to justify its progress towards nationhood
by uncovering or manipulating a still visible past. Rooms in houses and
attendant gardens feature in that process, structural symbols of moral
rebuilding and regrowth in the aftermath of fallen Edens. In the two
selected twentieth-century texts, a more fragmented and decayed sense
of space features, with hints of lost connections to nature and natural

<footnote n="65">⁶⁵ Credit for most of this selection goes to my students in Liverpool for helping me think creatively about houses in American literature as we discussed these course texts in final-year seminars.</footnote>
agreement, compromise, settlement, or understanding, as in "to reach an
accommodation" with someone. The secondary, less common definitions
in the phrase "rented accommodation" will be my main focus here, showing
how "rented" as in cracked, split, torn, or broken can be applied to texts
in which physical spaces such as rented rooms or houses symbolize
divisions between characters and within characters—divisions formed
by secrets, deceptions, and obsessions along with dissatisfaction and
hopelessness. As a further implication, to a degree narrative structure
and language itself are also rent apart in the texts. As for how the novels
accommodate *accommodation*, meaning an effort to achieve harmonious
solutions to plot dilemmas or to arrive at better understanding within or
between characters, such placid conclusions are not the outcomes of my
selected narratives. Instead, these textual rented accommodations more
often yield ambiguities and open up questions, sometimes as severe as
questions about human existence. In a world in which we have just a
short lease of life, a temporary residence in the flesh, the texts leave us
to ponder time and our mortality, to question the choices we make, the
morality of our decisions, and whether our aim in life is to be happy or to
be good.

I have joined together two pairs of texts for illustration of these
ideas: firstly Nathaniel Hawthorne's 1851 novel *The House of the Seven
Gables* and Henry James's 1888 novella *The Aspern Papers*, and secondly
F. Scott Fitzgerald's 1922 novel, *The Beautiful and Damned*, along with
Nathanael West's last novel, published in 1939, *The Day of the Locust*.<fnref n="65" />
Pairing the two nineteenth-century texts illustrates how an evolving
United States civilization is troubled by its history of conquest and
violence, and how it seeks to justify its progress towards nationhood
by uncovering or manipulating a still visible past. Rooms in houses and
attendant gardens feature in that process, structural symbols of moral
rebuilding and regrowth in the aftermath of fallen Edens. In the two
selected twentieth-century texts, a more fragmented and decayed sense
of space features, with hints of lost connections to nature and natural

<footnote n="65">⁶⁵ Credit for most of this selection goes to my students in Liverpool for helping me think creatively about houses in American literature as we discussed these course texts in final-year seminars.</footnote>
goodness. If their predecessors exhibit a desire for solidity of place and identity, the later novels accept American rootlessness and dislocation as the accepted order of the present and future.

# 1. Rented Rooms and Deceptive Purposes: *The House of the Seven Gables* and *The Aspern Papers*

In *The House of the Seven Gables*, the character driving key moments of the plot is Holgrave, the daguerreotypist photographer and radical thinker who has rented rooms located in one of the house's seven gables. We learn in the course of the narrative that he is an ancestor of the Puritan settler Mathew Maule, who was cheated out of the landholding on which the house is built and was executed by Colonel Pyncheon, the ruling-class forefather of the current owners. Mathew Maule had been burned for witchcraft, and Holgrave has inherited both magical abilities as well as the potential to pursue revenge for the ancient crime. Mathew Maule's son, Thomas Maule, set the pattern for that pursuit, for he was the architect of the house, and the one who may have been responsible for the death of Colonel Pyncheon, and the one who fashioned, behind a portrait of the Colonel, a secret recessed compartment that holds title deeds to lands in Maine, deeds that the prominent but semi-impoverished Pyncheon family searches and longs for over generations but cannot find. The Maule family's retribution and the Pyncheon family's guilt are bound together in a complex historical and narrative blend—but for my purposes it is important to note the features of Holgrave's lodgings and their relationship to other spatial elements in the text.

When readers are first introduced to Holgrave (as a mark of his inscrutability and incompleteness, we never learn his full name), he has been a lodger for about three months past "in a remote gable—quite a house by itself, indeed—with locks, bolts, and oaken bars, on all the intervening doors [to the rest of the house]" (Hawthorne 30). It is an isolated and secure location, attached and yet detached from the Pyncheon family home that had been built on Mathew Maule's original plot of land, over "an unquiet grave," so that when it was new the house
goodness. If their predecessors exhibit a desire for solidity of place and identity, the later novels accept American rootlessness and dislocation as the accepted order of the present and future.

# 1. Rented Rooms and Deceptive Purposes: *The House of the Seven Gables* and *The Aspern Papers*

In *The House of the Seven Gables*, the character driving key moments of the plot is Holgrave, the daguerreotypist photographer and radical thinker who has rented rooms located in one of the house's seven gables. We learn in the course of the narrative that he is an ancestor of the Puritan settler Mathew Maule, who was cheated out of the landholding on which the house is built and was executed by Colonel Pyncheon, the ruling-class forefather of the current owners. Mathew Maule had been burned for witchcraft, and Holgrave has inherited both magical abilities as well as the potential to pursue revenge for the ancient crime. Mathew Maule's son, Thomas Maule, set the pattern for that pursuit, for he was the architect of the house, and the one who may have been responsible for the death of Colonel Pyncheon, and the one who fashioned, behind a portrait of the Colonel, a secret recessed compartment that holds title deeds to lands in Maine, deeds that the prominent but semi-impoverished Pyncheon family searches and longs for over generations but cannot find. The Maule family's retribution and the Pyncheon family's guilt are bound together in a complex historical and narrative blend—but for my purposes it is important to note the features of Holgrave's lodgings and their relationship to other spatial elements in the text.

When readers are first introduced to Holgrave (as a mark of his inscrutability and incompleteness, we never learn his full name), he has been a lodger for about three months past "in a remote gable—quite a house by itself, indeed—with locks, bolts, and oaken bars, on all the intervening doors [to the rest of the house]" (Hawthorne 30). It is an isolated and secure location, attached and yet detached from the Pyncheon family home that had been built on Mathew Maule's original plot of land, over "an unquiet grave," so that when it was new the house
would thus afford the ghost [of Mathew Maule] a kind of privilege to
its new apartments, and the chambers into which future bridegrooms
were to lead their brides, and where children of the Pyncheon blood
were to be born. (9)

Holgrave thereby becomes the contemporary embodiment of that ghostly
presence, maintaining wizardly gifts in his occupation as a daguerrotypist,
using his rented rooms to produce the photographs. This is where, he
explains, "I misuse Heavens blessed sunshine by tracing out human
features, through its agency" (46). Daguerreotypes are holograph-like or
we might say ghost-like photographs created from shimmering polished
copper plates, treated with the magical elements of alchemy, mercury
and silver. Holgrave is thus both a scientist and a magician, mechanic and
artist, and his ghostly presence contains further dualities. He is capable
of benevolence as well as harm, as potentially another future bridegroom
or as a harbinger of deadly vengeance if the passage to his chambers
were to be reopened.

Holgrave's daguerreotypes must be held at just the right angle to be
seen clearly in their almost three-dimensional quality. Alan Trachtenberg
writes of

what by 1851 had become a fairly common experience: that apparent
trick of the mirrored metallic face of the daguerreotype image,
seeming at once here and gone, a positive and a negative, substance
and shadow. What one sees, shadow or image [...] depends on how
one holds the palm-sized cased image, at what angle and in what
light. (461-462)

In that way truthful representation is a matter of manipulation and
interpretation. The daguerreotype itself is an enclosed space, one that
can be used for good or ill because it was believed that it could reveal
the true self of its subject—a truth, though, that has to be discovered,
determined through the perspective of the viewer. Sean Kelly explains:
would thus afford the ghost [of Mathew Maule] a kind of privilege to
its new apartments, and the chambers into which future bridegrooms
were to lead their brides, and where children of the Pyncheon blood
were to be born. (9)

Holgrave thereby becomes the contemporary embodiment of that ghostly
presence, maintaining wizardly gifts in his occupation as a daguerrotypist,
using his rented rooms to produce the photographs. This is where, he
explains, "I misuse Heavens blessed sunshine by tracing out human
features, through its agency" (46). Daguerreotypes are holograph-like or
we might say ghost-like photographs created from shimmering polished
copper plates, treated with the magical elements of alchemy, mercury
and silver. Holgrave is thus both a scientist and a magician, mechanic and
artist, and his ghostly presence contains further dualities. He is capable
of benevolence as well as harm, as potentially another future bridegroom
or as a harbinger of deadly vengeance if the passage to his chambers
were to be reopened.

Holgrave's daguerreotypes must be held at just the right angle to be
seen clearly in their almost three-dimensional quality. Alan Trachtenberg
writes of

what by 1851 had become a fairly common experience: that apparent
trick of the mirrored metallic face of the daguerreotype image,
seeming at once here and gone, a positive and a negative, substance
and shadow. What one sees, shadow or image [...] depends on how
one holds the palm-sized cased image, at what angle and in what
light. (461-462)

In that way truthful representation is a matter of manipulation and
interpretation. The daguerreotype itself is an enclosed space, one that
can be used for good or ill because it was believed that it could reveal
the true self of its subject—a truth, though, that has to be discovered,
determined through the perspective of the viewer. Sean Kelly explains:
In the ambiguous representation of the daguerreian portrait,
both elusive due to its mirrored, unsteady surface and static in
its mimetic, scientific objectivity, Hawthorne presents a complex
view of the self as both ontologically emergent and bordering on
ontological destitution—at once a “material ghost” and an animate
corpse. (233)

Like his photographs and like his presence in the house, Holgrave
withholds the truth about his family origins, not revealing to the young
Phoebe Pyncheon until they have declared their love for one another
near the end of the narrative that he is a Maule. In his rented room until
that revelation he is an insidious invader, capable of enacting inherited
retribution. However, by the end of the narrative, both Phoebe, with her
country-bred practicality and natural optimism, and Holgrave, with his
democratic spirit, break free from their entrapped family histories. The
house, with its "exterior presentment of established rank and great
possessions" (Hawthorne 25) is as inwardly decrepit as Poe's House of
Usher; and it represents all of the debased authority of the political ruling
elite, led by Judge Pyncheon, the devious, Janus-faced legatee of his family's
fortune. Under the calming influence of the sunny, garden-loving Phoebe,
Holgrave will temper his radical reformist beliefs, choose harmonious
marriage over turbulent social change. This resolution is foreshadowed
during the first meeting between Phoebe and Holgrave in a corner of the
garden adjacent to the house, when he explains:

I dig, and hoe, and weed, in this black old earth, for the sake of
refreshing myself with what little nature and simplicity may be left
in it, after men have sown and reaped here. I turn up the earth by
way of pastime. (91)

The garden thereby shares the house's ambiguous qualities, a place
where growth and burial coexist, where the burden of past time and the
uplift of leisurely pastime mix together. As the soil is dug and broken up
to nurture new life, the blockage between rented rooms and the main
house also must be released.
In the ambiguous representation of the daguerreian portrait,
both elusive due to its mirrored, unsteady surface and static in
its mimetic, scientific objectivity, Hawthorne presents a complex
view of the self as both ontologically emergent and bordering on
ontological destitution—at once a “material ghost” and an animate
corpse. (233)

Like his photographs and like his presence in the house, Holgrave
withholds the truth about his family origins, not revealing to the young
Phoebe Pyncheon until they have declared their love for one another
near the end of the narrative that he is a Maule. In his rented room until
that revelation he is an insidious invader, capable of enacting inherited
retribution. However, by the end of the narrative, both Phoebe, with her
country-bred practicality and natural optimism, and Holgrave, with his
democratic spirit, break free from their entrapped family histories. The
house, with its "exterior presentment of established rank and great
possessions" (Hawthorne 25) is as inwardly decrepit as Poe's House of
Usher; and it represents all of the debased authority of the political ruling
elite, led by Judge Pyncheon, the devious, Janus-faced legatee of his family's
fortune. Under the calming influence of the sunny, garden-loving Phoebe,
Holgrave will temper his radical reformist beliefs, choose harmonious
marriage over turbulent social change. This resolution is foreshadowed
during the first meeting between Phoebe and Holgrave in a corner of the
garden adjacent to the house, when he explains:

I dig, and hoe, and weed, in this black old earth, for the sake of
refreshing myself with what little nature and simplicity may be left
in it, after men have sown and reaped here. I turn up the earth by
way of pastime. (91)

The garden thereby shares the house's ambiguous qualities, a place
where growth and burial coexist, where the burden of past time and the
uplift of leisurely pastime mix together. As the soil is dug and broken up
to nurture new life, the blockage between rented rooms and the main
house also must be released.
The encrusted conflict between the two families is broken (rent) at the point when the barriers between Holgrave's lodgings in the far north gable and the rest of the house are removed—significantly, not by Holgrave himself but by the desperate old Hepzibah Pyncheon, Phoebe's cousin. Previously, Hepzibah was “apt to suspect him of studying the Black Art, up there in his lonesome chamber” and of practicing “animal magnetism” (mesmerism, hypnotism). But when she later seeks Holgrave's help, she unbolts “a door, cobwebbed and long disused” (244), thereby reopening the transit between his gable and the rest of the house. Thus the oldest relation of the Pyncheons becomes the agent to open a channel into the future, initially an uncertain future represented through Holgrave as both a figure of inventive modernity and a dark avenging spirit. However, if the past's curse is seen as the locks and bolts that prevent progress into a brighter future, then cracking open the door is a necessary act of destruction, one that delivers unknown but more positive possibilities.

From isolation to liberation, the house is steadily relieved of its ancient curse as further barriers are broken and new freedoms are released. Judge Pyncheon dies alone in a cold, dreary room upon a death chair that was the seat of family power. Through the omniscient narrator, readers are exposed to knowledge of “the inner heart of the seven gables, as well as its exterior face” (294). No longer a “stumbling block” (261) to human progress, the house explodes in a reverie of fresh ideas. Phoebe exclaims: “Let us throw open the doors, and call all the neighbourhood to see the truth!” (305). Inside, the ancient portrait of the ancestor Judge Pyncheon is found to have a secret hinge, now decayed and broken, exposing behind it a recess in the wall that holds the out-of-date Maine territory title-deeds that had burdened the Pyncheon family with false hopes of fortune and faulty foundations of undeserved grandeur.

The hidden compartment, like Holgrave's concealed work in his rented rooms, could be understood in relation to the hidden history of mid-nineteenth-century America, too, with the 1850 Compromise between the Northern and Southern states over slavery hovering as a ghost in the background, as ongoing political deadlock held back the nation's moral development, but not its territorial and materialist expansion. The narrator reflects:
The encrusted conflict between the two families is broken (rent) at the point when the barriers between Holgrave's lodgings in the far north gable and the rest of the house are removed—significantly, not by Holgrave himself but by the desperate old Hepzibah Pyncheon, Phoebe's cousin. Previously, Hepzibah was “apt to suspect him of studying the Black Art, up there in his lonesome chamber” and of practicing “animal magnetism” (mesmerism, hypnotism). But when she later seeks Holgrave's help, she unbolts “a door, cobwebbed and long disused” (244), thereby reopening the transit between his gable and the rest of the house. Thus the oldest relation of the Pyncheons becomes the agent to open a channel into the future, initially an uncertain future represented through Holgrave as both a figure of inventive modernity and a dark avenging spirit. However, if the past's curse is seen as the locks and bolts that prevent progress into a brighter future, then cracking open the door is a necessary act of destruction, one that delivers unknown but more positive possibilities.

From isolation to liberation, the house is steadily relieved of its ancient curse as further barriers are broken and new freedoms are released. Judge Pyncheon dies alone in a cold, dreary room upon a death chair that was the seat of family power. Through the omniscient narrator, readers are exposed to knowledge of “the inner heart of the seven gables, as well as its exterior face” (294). No longer a “stumbling block” (261) to human progress, the house explodes in a reverie of fresh ideas. Phoebe exclaims: “Let us throw open the doors, and call all the neighbourhood to see the truth!” (305). Inside, the ancient portrait of the ancestor Judge Pyncheon is found to have a secret hinge, now decayed and broken, exposing behind it a recess in the wall that holds the out-of-date Maine territory title-deeds that had burdened the Pyncheon family with false hopes of fortune and faulty foundations of undeserved grandeur.

The hidden compartment, like Holgrave's concealed work in his rented rooms, could be understood in relation to the hidden history of mid-nineteenth-century America, too, with the 1850 Compromise between the Northern and Southern states over slavery hovering as a ghost in the background, as ongoing political deadlock held back the nation's moral development, but not its territorial and materialist expansion. The narrator reflects:
It seemed to Holgrave [...] that in this age, more than before, the moss-grown and rotten Past is to be torn down, and lifeless institutions to be thrust out of the way, and their dead corpses buried, and everything to begin anew. (179)

Nevertheless, the compromises (accommodations) that he makes in accepting Phoebe's prudence in the closing scenes also imply that he has learned not only tolerance but also to subdue the "terrible energy" (161) of modernity and radical change, when he gives up his temporary occupation (another word with a double meaning) as a daguerreotypist. Hawthorne, ever the compromiser himself in his ambiguous writing and his gradualist politics, gives us a fairy tale ending to *The House of the Seven Gables* that is as difficult to interpret as was the future of America for those living there in 1850. Whether understood from a psychoanalytical angle as Holgrave's release from a cycle of guilt and retribution, or in historical terms as the integration of his restless modernity with the industrious and stable domestic characteristics of Phoebe,<fnref n="66" /> the ending, in which the key characters depart the House of the Seven Gables for a country estate, turns dark enclosed spaces into bright open space. However, narratologically, the transformation is less assured; for although no longer trapped by old ways of thinking and haunted by shadows of the past, they leap into a fairy-tale future governed by "unintelligible prophesies" (319).

Henry James's *The Aspern Papers* has several features in common with Hawthorne's novel: both have central characters who rent rooms in large houses, and who conceal or even lie about their true identities; gardens as sites of significant encounters and as symbolic sites of at least potential betrayal and lost innocence are important settings in both texts; and both involve key moral decisions on the part of the male protagonists. We have seen how Holgrave takes the noble course of action, refusing to act upon long-standing family hatred. The unnamed narrator of *The Aspern Papers*, however, when faced with his moral choice, acts in favor of his selfish desires at the cost of his moral integrity, and he suffers the debt of guilt and regret.

<footnote n="66">⁶⁶ For these examples among the varied interpretations of the novel's ending, see Diamond and Masterson.</footnote>
It seemed to Holgrave [...] that in this age, more than before, the moss-grown and rotten Past is to be torn down, and lifeless institutions to be thrust out of the way, and their dead corpses buried, and everything to begin anew. (179)

Nevertheless, the compromises (accommodations) that he makes in accepting Phoebe's prudence in the closing scenes also imply that he has learned not only tolerance but also to subdue the "terrible energy" (161) of modernity and radical change, when he gives up his temporary occupation (another word with a double meaning) as a daguerreotypist. Hawthorne, ever the compromiser himself in his ambiguous writing and his gradualist politics, gives us a fairy tale ending to *The House of the Seven Gables* that is as difficult to interpret as was the future of America for those living there in 1850. Whether understood from a psychoanalytical angle as Holgrave's release from a cycle of guilt and retribution, or in historical terms as the integration of his restless modernity with the industrious and stable domestic characteristics of Phoebe,<fnref n="66" /> the ending, in which the key characters depart the House of the Seven Gables for a country estate, turns dark enclosed spaces into bright open space. However, narratologically, the transformation is less assured; for although no longer trapped by old ways of thinking and haunted by shadows of the past, they leap into a fairy-tale future governed by "unintelligible prophesies" (319).

Henry James's *The Aspern Papers* has several features in common with Hawthorne's novel: both have central characters who rent rooms in large houses, and who conceal or even lie about their true identities; gardens as sites of significant encounters and as symbolic sites of at least potential betrayal and lost innocence are important settings in both texts; and both involve key moral decisions on the part of the male protagonists. We have seen how Holgrave takes the noble course of action, refusing to act upon long-standing family hatred. The unnamed narrator of *The Aspern Papers*, however, when faced with his moral choice, acts in favor of his selfish desires at the cost of his moral integrity, and he suffers the debt of guilt and regret.

<footnote n="66">⁶⁶ For these examples among the varied interpretations of the novel's ending, see Diamond and Masterson.</footnote>
Although James himself owed a debt to Hawthorne, as a pathfinder in American literature, and James wrote a slyly critical study of Hawthorne, in James's house of fiction the emphasis is on the psychology of behavior, the workings of the consciousness and conscience, rather than Hawthorne's focus on social change, the need for greater balance between the arts and sciences, and greater equality between men and women. The key difference between their two texts is that *The Aspern Papers* has a first-person narrator, an unnamed literary editor who may or may not reveal his true feelings in a confessional retrospective narrative record of his deliberate attempt to obtain some letters and other documents relevant to a critical biography that he wants to publish on the life and works of the late, great American poet Jeffrey Aspern. Inspired by James's discoveries about Lord Byron's lover Claire Claremont and letters from Percy Bysshe Shelley that she possessed, the narrative has the editor-narrator arrive in Venice with the intention of obtaining the Aspern papers that might or might not still exist, in the possession of Aspern's one-time lover, the now ninety-some-year-old Juliana Bordereau, who lives in an old palazzo in an out-of-the way corner of Venice with her introverted niece (or perhaps grand-niece [52] or possibly her daughter by Aspern<sup>67</sup>), Miss Tita Bordereau.

That family name is significant, meaning a financial or legal docket or slip. According to the website Investopedia, a "bordereau" is "a report provided by a reinsured company detailing the losses or premiums affected by reinsurance." The implication is that our narrator is entering a tricky situation which might result in a gain or a loss for him. That could mean simply gaining or losing the Aspern papers, using them to provide insights into the relationship between the late poet and his muse, the creative inspiration behind his poetry. Or it could mean the narrator gaining or losing his personal integrity and honour. In order to obtain the papers, he has decided that "[h]ypocrisy, duplicity are [his] only chance" (James, *Aspern Papers and Other Tales* 56). Therefore, he pretends to be a disinterested man of letters seeking temporary Venetian lodgings for

<footnote n="67">⁶⁷ For evidence of a daughter-mother relationship and analysis of its textual implications, see Diane G. Scholl, "Secret Paternity in *The Aspern Papers*: Whose Letters?"</footnote>
Although James himself owed a debt to Hawthorne, as a pathfinder in American literature, and James wrote a slyly critical study of Hawthorne, in James's house of fiction the emphasis is on the psychology of behavior, the workings of the consciousness and conscience, rather than Hawthorne's focus on social change, the need for greater balance between the arts and sciences, and greater equality between men and women. The key difference between their two texts is that *The Aspern Papers* has a first-person narrator, an unnamed literary editor who may or may not reveal his true feelings in a confessional retrospective narrative record of his deliberate attempt to obtain some letters and other documents relevant to a critical biography that he wants to publish on the life and works of the late, great American poet Jeffrey Aspern. Inspired by James's discoveries about Lord Byron's lover Claire Claremont and letters from Percy Bysshe Shelley that she possessed, the narrative has the editor-narrator arrive in Venice with the intention of obtaining the Aspern papers that might or might not still exist, in the possession of Aspern's one-time lover, the now ninety-some-year-old Juliana Bordereau, who lives in an old palazzo in an out-of-the way corner of Venice with her introverted niece (or perhaps grand-niece [52] or possibly her daughter by Aspern<fnref n="67" />), Miss Tita Bordereau.

That family name is significant, meaning a financial or legal docket or slip. According to the website Investopedia, a "bordereau" is "a report provided by a reinsured company detailing the losses or premiums affected by reinsurance." The implication is that our narrator is entering a tricky situation which might result in a gain or a loss for him. That could mean simply gaining or losing the Aspern papers, using them to provide insights into the relationship between the late poet and his muse, the creative inspiration behind his poetry. Or it could mean the narrator gaining or losing his personal integrity and honour. In order to obtain the papers, he has decided that "[h]ypocrisy, duplicity are [his] only chance" (James, *Aspern Papers and Other Tales* 56). Therefore, he pretends to be a disinterested man of letters seeking temporary Venetian lodgings for

<footnote n="67">⁶⁷ For evidence of a daughter-mother relationship and analysis of its textual implications, see Diane G. Scholl, "Secret Paternity in *The Aspern Papers*: Whose Letters?"</footnote>
a summer sojourn, but specifically with the fervent desire to find a place
that has a garden. In that way, he manages to convince the upper-class
but cash-strapped Bordereaus to rent him rooms in their "dilapidated old
palace on an out-of-the-way canal" (50). The house "had an air not so
much of decay as of quiet discouragement," the narrator tells us, "as if it
had rather missed its career" (54). The setting isolates the action within
the condensed space of the novella text, too: "It overlooked a clean,
melancholy, unfrequented canal" (54), and Miss Tita says "the little canal
is very *comme il faut*" (64), a description that the narrator counteracts
by his own improper, deceptive behavior.

The palazzo is later described as

stately and gloomy, but it owed its character almost entirely to its
noble shape and to the fine architectural doors—as high as the doors
of houses—which, leading into the various rooms, repeated themselves
on either side at intervals. (59)

Those doors, symbolized as the form of Juliana Bordereau's resistance
to snooping literary critics and to any invasion of her privacy, will prove
impossible to break through, even after Juliana's death. In a delicious plot
twist at the end of the narrative, Miss Tita claims that she has found
her aunt's correspondence and other papers from Jeffrey Aspern, but
Tita Bordereau then says that she has burned them, piece by piece. The
reasons for her ostensible destruction of the valuable literary documents
are unclear—whether because she wants to protect her aunt's reputation
and honor her memory, or because she harbors resentment against her
aunt for the closeted life that Tita has been forced to lead and thus burns
the papers that meant so much to her aunt. Or Tita may be punishing
the narrator, who accepts that he "had unwittingly but nonetheless
deplorably trifled" (140) with Tita's affections, leading her to believe that
he might marry her. He momentarily considers that step after Juliana's
death because as husband to the old woman's heir he could obtain the
papers, the "tormenting treasure" (126) that he desires at *almost* any
cost, although that cost (a marriage union, another entrapment or closure)
ultimately proves too much for him to pay.
a summer sojourn, but specifically with the fervent desire to find a place
that has a garden. In that way, he manages to convince the upper-class
but cash-strapped Bordereaus to rent him rooms in their "dilapidated old
palace on an out-of-the-way canal" (50). The house "had an air not so
much of decay as of quiet discouragement," the narrator tells us, "as if it
had rather missed its career" (54). The setting isolates the action within
the condensed space of the novella text, too: "It overlooked a clean,
melancholy, unfrequented canal" (54), and Miss Tita says "the little canal
is very *comme il faut*" (64), a description that the narrator counteracts
by his own improper, deceptive behavior.

The palazzo is later described as

stately and gloomy, but it owed its character almost entirely to its
noble shape and to the fine architectural doors—as high as the doors
of houses—which, leading into the various rooms, repeated themselves
on either side at intervals. (59)

Those doors, symbolized as the form of Juliana Bordereau's resistance
to snooping literary critics and to any invasion of her privacy, will prove
impossible to break through, even after Juliana's death. In a delicious plot
twist at the end of the narrative, Miss Tita claims that she has found
her aunt's correspondence and other papers from Jeffrey Aspern, but
Tita Bordereau then says that she has burned them, piece by piece. The
reasons for her ostensible destruction of the valuable literary documents
are unclear—whether because she wants to protect her aunt's reputation
and honor her memory, or because she harbors resentment against her
aunt for the closeted life that Tita has been forced to lead and thus burns
the papers that meant so much to her aunt. Or Tita may be punishing
the narrator, who accepts that he "had unwittingly but nonetheless
deplorably trifled" (140) with Tita's affections, leading her to believe that
he might marry her. He momentarily considers that step after Juliana's
death because as husband to the old woman's heir he could obtain the
papers, the "tormenting treasure" (126) that he desires at *almost* any
cost, although that cost (a marriage union, another entrapment or closure)
ultimately proves too much for him to pay.
Thus, the editor narrator is foiled in his underhanded mission, and his rented accommodation in the palazzo is associated with his *rented* (that is divided and temporary) identity and with his failure to *accommodate* his desire for the papers with the deceptive means for achieving his goal or with a potential resolution through marriage. He presents himself to the Bordereaus under a false name, and he finally confesses his true identity and his duplicity to Miss Tita only at a crisis point when the papers are within his reach. (Importantly, though, he does not reveal his name to readers, perhaps as a way to cover his shame by maintaining his anonymity.)

His leased rooms overlook a dishevelled garden space, and he hires workers to clear the area and plant flowers: "I would smother the house in flowers," he exclaims; "—I would succeed by big nosegays. I would batter the old woman with lilies—I would bombard their citadel with roses." However, caught up in his plans, thrilled as much by the pursuit of his goal as by the chance to possess the papers, he misdirects himself from the more grounded and lasting meanings to be found in uncultivated nature, or a world in which the unretrieved papers exist only in imagination, and better for that as an unfulfilled resolution. He admits about the garden: "I liked it better as it was, with its weeds and its wild, rough tangle, its sweet, characteristic Venetian shabbiness." Captivated by his machinations, he has literally cultivated deception, transforming his former, honest, natural self in the process. Looking back through time, he recalls "the real summer days" before his falsehood fully blossomed: "[...] as I look back on them they seem to me almost the happiest of my life," days when he sat in the garden arbor when it was not too hot, "always with some business in writing in hand," enjoying the pure pleasure of his chosen work (78).

The narrator's compulsive self-deception parallels the intrigue surrounding the papers. Juliana never provides him with a receipt for the large payment that he gives her for renting the rooms (75-76), a lack that also casts doubt on whether or not the Aspern papers actually exist. After confirmation that they might be extant, he comes to suspect that they might be hidden in a green trunk in Juliana's quarters of the house, and then that they might have been removed to a secretary bureau desk. According to Miss Tita, the papers turn out to have been
Thus, the editor narrator is foiled in his underhanded mission, and his rented accommodation in the palazzo is associated with his *rented* (that is divided and temporary) identity and with his failure to *accommodate* his desire for the papers with the deceptive means for achieving his goal or with a potential resolution through marriage. He presents himself to the Bordereaus under a false name, and he finally confesses his true identity and his duplicity to Miss Tita only at a crisis point when the papers are within his reach. (Importantly, though, he does not reveal his name to readers, perhaps as a way to cover his shame by maintaining his anonymity.)

His leased rooms overlook a dishevelled garden space, and he hires workers to clear the area and plant flowers: "I would smother the house in flowers," he exclaims; "—I would succeed by big nosegays. I would batter the old woman with lilies—I would bombard their citadel with roses." However, caught up in his plans, thrilled as much by the pursuit of his goal as by the chance to possess the papers, he misdirects himself from the more grounded and lasting meanings to be found in uncultivated nature, or a world in which the unretrieved papers exist only in imagination, and better for that as an unfulfilled resolution. He admits about the garden: "I liked it better as it was, with its weeds and its wild, rough tangle, its sweet, characteristic Venetian shabbiness." Captivated by his machinations, he has literally cultivated deception, transforming his former, honest, natural self in the process. Looking back through time, he recalls "the real summer days" before his falsehood fully blossomed: "[...] as I look back on them they seem to me almost the happiest of my life," days when he sat in the garden arbor when it was not too hot, "always with some business in writing in hand," enjoying the pure pleasure of his chosen work (78).

The narrator's compulsive self-deception parallels the intrigue surrounding the papers. Juliana never provides him with a receipt for the large payment that he gives her for renting the rooms (75-76), a lack that also casts doubt on whether or not the Aspern papers actually exist. After confirmation that they might be extant, he comes to suspect that they might be hidden in a green trunk in Juliana's quarters of the house, and then that they might have been removed to a secretary bureau desk. According to Miss Tita, the papers turn out to have been
concealed in Juliana's bed—between the old woman's mattresses (so in that
sense she was still sleeping with her dead lover). Their shifting location
emphasizes the dubious, invasive nature of the narrator's plot to obtain
the papers—clearly a violation of Juliana's most intimate possession,
an attempt to steal her heart's fondest remembrances and turn them
into public exposition. He tells her that critics "often lay bare the truth"
(108), but ironically the truth uncovered lies within his own heart, and it
proves a painful embarrassment to him. His physical invasion of her inner
rooms at night to look for the hidden papers leads to her near collapse,
and he feels "reprimanded and shamed" (123). When she unexpectedly
rises from her illness to discover his treachery, he is confronted by her
famous eyes, the subject of Aspern's most vibrant poetry, but covered in
all of her previous encounters with the narrator by a face veil—"a horrible
green shade, which, for her, served almost as a mask" (64). Now "[t]hey
glared at me, they made me horribly ashamed" (127).

He has other reasons to be ashamed, for the confessional narrative is
overlaid with other imagery that reinforces the intrusive manner in which
he has played with Miss Tita's inexperience with men, using her as a tool
in his manipulations. Two contrasting scenes illustrate the extent of his
mendacity. Luring her with his garden flowers and increasingly intimate
conversation, he removes her from the isolated palazzo on a gondola
trip to the center of San Marco, treating her to ices at Florian's café.
Reflecting on the experience, he considers: "I felt that she surrendered
herself. She was more than pleased, she was transported; the whole thing
was an immense liberation" (99). He does pity her secluded and restricted
existence, but his actions here are hollow, designed to achieve his aim
of opening a route to the papers. In the end, though, unable to achieve
that aim, to accommodate his desire against the Bordereaus' resistance,
having refused Tita's offer of marriage in exchange for the papers, he finds
himself adrift, his conscience badly rent. He "float[s] aimlessly about on
the lagoon" (140) with his gondolier, then meanders upon the loose beach
sands of the Lido, before returning to the boat and telling the gondolier:
"Go anywhere—everywhere—all over the place" (142).

Therefore, the false claim that lies behind his manipulations in rented
accommodation, assaulting the Bordereaus' private citadel from within its
concealed in Juliana's bed—between the old woman's mattresses (so in that
sense she was still sleeping with her dead lover). Their shifting location
emphasizes the dubious, invasive nature of the narrator's plot to obtain
the papers—clearly a violation of Juliana's most intimate possession,
an attempt to steal her heart's fondest remembrances and turn them
into public exposition. He tells her that critics "often lay bare the truth"
(108), but ironically the truth uncovered lies within his own heart, and it
proves a painful embarrassment to him. His physical invasion of her inner
rooms at night to look for the hidden papers leads to her near collapse,
and he feels "reprimanded and shamed" (123). When she unexpectedly
rises from her illness to discover his treachery, he is confronted by her
famous eyes, the subject of Aspern's most vibrant poetry, but covered in
all of her previous encounters with the narrator by a face veil—"a horrible
green shade, which, for her, served almost as a mask" (64). Now "[t]hey
glared at me, they made me horribly ashamed" (127).

He has other reasons to be ashamed, for the confessional narrative is
overlaid with other imagery that reinforces the intrusive manner in which
he has played with Miss Tita's inexperience with men, using her as a tool
in his manipulations. Two contrasting scenes illustrate the extent of his
mendacity. Luring her with his garden flowers and increasingly intimate
conversation, he removes her from the isolated palazzo on a gondola
trip to the center of San Marco, treating her to ices at Florian's café.
Reflecting on the experience, he considers: "I felt that she surrendered
herself. She was more than pleased, she was transported; the whole thing
was an immense liberation" (99). He does pity her secluded and restricted
existence, but his actions here are hollow, designed to achieve his aim
of opening a route to the papers. In the end, though, unable to achieve
that aim, to accommodate his desire against the Bordereaus' resistance,
having refused Tita's offer of marriage in exchange for the papers, he finds
himself adrift, his conscience badly rent. He "float[s] aimlessly about on
the lagoon" (140) with his gondolier, then meanders upon the loose beach
sands of the Lido, before returning to the boat and telling the gondolier:
"Go anywhere—everywhere—all over the place" (142).

Therefore, the false claim that lies behind his manipulations in rented
accommodation, assaulting the Bordereaus' private citadel from within its
walls, results not only in the apparent destruction of the Aspern papers
but in the narrator's multi-layered remorse and damaged conscience.
James's revision of the ending of the text for the later New York Edition
of his works reveals in the structure and punctuation of the final sen-
tence a suggestion of even further damage to the narrator's psyche.
Concerning the miniature portrait of Aspern that is the one tangible
acquisition from the narrator's efforts, the revised line reads: "When I
look at it I can scarcely bear my loss—I mean of the precious papers"
(James, *Aspern Papers, The Turn of the Screw* 143). The dash may indicate
that the material loss of the papers is an afterthought, and that, as Ellen
Brown suggests, the narrator suffers "a more ambiguous, unnameable
loss" (269), perhaps of his honour and integrity, his self-respect, or of
his essential selfhood. The dash acts like the physical, epistemological,
and moral distance between his rented rooms with all his premeditated
deceits and the main residence of the villa where the treasured letters have
been kept. The moral tale gains depth and weight from the late-delivered
information that the palazzo itself is owned on a lease for an unknown
term of years. With the death of Juliana, the inspiration for Aspern's best
poetry, and with the end of the narrator's attempt to provide the public
with fresh reasons to appreciate the poet's work and fill a void within
himself, the text highlights a further theme—that of our lease of life, in
which we have to determine how best to act before the end, to discover
how well our moral compass works by deciding whether we will pursue
private obsessions at any price or accommodate the feelings of others
in this short residency on earth.

## 2. Accommodating Fractured Modernity: *The Beautiful and Damned and The Day of the Locust*

While *The House of the Seven Gables* and *The Aspern Papers* involve
clearly defined rented properties that serve as places for characters to
disguise their motives in the pursuit of set aims, even though concrete
outcomes are not achieved, my selected American novels from the
twentieth century present locations that resist clear definition and reflect
the complexity of modern life and its representation. *The Beautiful and*
walls, results not only in the apparent destruction of the Aspern papers
but in the narrator's multi-layered remorse and damaged conscience.
James's revision of the ending of the text for the later New York Edition
of his works reveals in the structure and punctuation of the final sen-
tence a suggestion of even further damage to the narrator's psyche.
Concerning the miniature portrait of Aspern that is the one tangible
acquisition from the narrator's efforts, the revised line reads: "When I
look at it I can scarcely bear my loss—I mean of the precious papers"
(James, *Aspern Papers, The Turn of the Screw* 143). The dash may indicate
that the material loss of the papers is an afterthought, and that, as Ellen
Brown suggests, the narrator suffers "a more ambiguous, unnameable
loss" (269), perhaps of his honour and integrity, his self-respect, or of
his essential selfhood. The dash acts like the physical, epistemological,
and moral distance between his rented rooms with all his premeditated
deceits and the main residence of the villa where the treasured letters have
been kept. The moral tale gains depth and weight from the late-delivered
information that the palazzo itself is owned on a lease for an unknown
term of years. With the death of Juliana, the inspiration for Aspern's best
poetry, and with the end of the narrator's attempt to provide the public
with fresh reasons to appreciate the poet's work and fill a void within
himself, the text highlights a further theme—that of our lease of life, in
which we have to determine how best to act before the end, to discover
how well our moral compass works by deciding whether we will pursue
private obsessions at any price or accommodate the feelings of others
in this short residency on earth.

## 2. Accommodating Fractured Modernity: *The Beautiful and Damned and The Day of the Locust*

While *The House of the Seven Gables* and *The Aspern Papers* involve
clearly defined rented properties that serve as places for characters to
disguise their motives in the pursuit of set aims, even though concrete
outcomes are not achieved, my selected American novels from the
twentieth century present locations that resist clear definition and reflect
the complexity of modern life and its representation. *The Beautiful and*
*Damned* and *The Day of the Locust* each contains a rented house that provides temporary accommodation for characters who are drifting along in life and who seek some further satisfaction and purpose in their existence.

F. Scott Fitzgerald's second novel, *The Beautiful and Damned*, involves the glamorous young couple Anthony and Gloria Patch. He expects to inherit millions from his Puritanical grandfather, while she is enraptured with her own beauty and status. The novel chronicles their economic and moral decline, and a key theme in the narrative is their inability to find a vocation that would give meaning and purpose to their lives. James L. W. West III reminds us that

"Vocation" comes from the Latin *vocatio*, a word which carries the literal meaning of "calling." This is not the same thing as work, a more specific word with overtones of the mundane and financial. For Fitzgerald, the idea of vocation was crucial: one had literally to be called or summoned to meaningful efforts in life. (50)

Without a true vocation, Anthony and Gloria question whether a life of leisurely pursuit in itself might be worth devoting themselves to. However, that solution to their existential dilemma requires the expected inheritance from Anthony's plutocratic grandfather, an ultra-conservative anti-vice campaigner.

Fitzgerald depicts the flaws in Anthony's indirection and Gloria's nihilistic philosophy—"a violent affirmation of the negative principle 'Never give a damn!'" (172)—through significant locations involving temporary spaces. The turning point leading to Anthony and Gloria's financial, social, and moral collapse occurs in a rented summer house, called the grey house, near the town of Marietta outside of New York City, that they have taken a lease on for a third summer. In keeping with their nonchalant attitudes, they sign this new lease during a house party, in "one last burst of garrulous decision," when "[i]t had been easy to work themselves up to a sense of how hot and deserted the city [New York] was getting, of how cool and ambrosial were the charms of Marietta" (196). The next day they awake to the realization of what they have really done:
*Damned* and *The Day of the Locust* each contains a rented house that provides temporary accommodation for characters who are drifting along in life and who seek some further satisfaction and purpose in their existence.

F. Scott Fitzgerald's second novel, *The Beautiful and Damned*, involves the glamorous young couple Anthony and Gloria Patch. He expects to inherit millions from his Puritanical grandfather, while she is enraptured with her own beauty and status. The novel chronicles their economic and moral decline, and a key theme in the narrative is their inability to find a vocation that would give meaning and purpose to their lives. James L. W. West III reminds us that

"Vocation" comes from the Latin *vocatio*, a word which carries the literal meaning of "calling." This is not the same thing as work, a more specific word with overtones of the mundane and financial. For Fitzgerald, the idea of vocation was crucial: one had literally to be called or summoned to meaningful efforts in life. (50)

Without a true vocation, Anthony and Gloria question whether a life of leisurely pursuit in itself might be worth devoting themselves to. However, that solution to their existential dilemma requires the expected inheritance from Anthony's plutocratic grandfather, an ultra-conservative anti-vice campaigner.

Fitzgerald depicts the flaws in Anthony's indirection and Gloria's nihilistic philosophy—"a violent affirmation of the negative principle 'Never give a damn!'" (172)—through significant locations involving temporary spaces. The turning point leading to Anthony and Gloria's financial, social, and moral collapse occurs in a rented summer house, called the grey house, near the town of Marietta outside of New York City, that they have taken a lease on for a third summer. In keeping with their nonchalant attitudes, they sign this new lease during a house party, in "one last burst of garrulous decision," when "[i]t had been easy to work themselves up to a sense of how hot and deserted the city [New York] was getting, of how cool and ambrosial were the charms of Marietta" (196). The next day they awake to the realization of what they have really done:
"Anthony, she cried, "we've signed and sent it!"

"What?"

"The lease!"

"What the devil!"

"Oh, Anthony!" There was utter misery in her voice. For the summer,
for eternity, they had built themselves a prison. (196)

It turns out to be a prison of their own making, not so much because of the
house itself, but of how they misspend their time there in a degenerative
and largely aimless series of entertainments and desultory quarrels.
Their rootless existence there mirrors their inability to find worthwhile
employment with what little talent they might have and little effort they
can muster. The novel revolves around the moral precept that a fulfilling
life is a life of fulfilling work, in the sense that Voltaire recommended in
*Candide* that we each tend our own gardens, seek an occupation that
brings personal satisfaction and yields social benefit, too. The most
obvious work that Gloria and Anthony Patch do in *The Beautiful and
Damned* is to waste their time.

The ruin of their hopes for a life of financial ease comes in the
grey house at the end of an elaborate party, narrated in an oddly styled
chapter entitled "The Broken Lute," which is presented like a play or film
script, complete with stage directions and director's notes along with the
dialogue. Anthony's grandfather, Adam Patch, arrives unexpectedly with
his lawyer and estate manager, Mr Suttleworth, during the height of the
riotous party, and the cantankerous old man is not amused:

SHUTTLEWORTH: (Passionately) Your grandfather thought he would
motor over to see your house. I phoned from Rye and left a message.

(A series of little gasps, emanating, apparently, from nowhere,
from no one, fall into the next pause. ANTHONY is the color of
chalk. GLORIA'S lips are parted and her level gaze at the old
man is tense and frightened. There is not a smile in the room.
No one? Or does CROSS PATCH'S drawn mouth tremble slightly
open, to expose the even rows of his thin teeth? He speaks—five
mild and simple words.)
"Anthony, she cried, "we've signed and sent it!"

"What?"

"The lease!"

"What the devil!"

"Oh, Anthony!" There was utter misery in her voice. For the summer,
for eternity, they had built themselves a prison. (196)

It turns out to be a prison of their own making, not so much because of the
house itself, but of how they misspend their time there in a degenerative
and largely aimless series of entertainments and desultory quarrels.
Their rootless existence there mirrors their inability to find worthwhile
employment with what little talent they might have and little effort they
can muster. The novel revolves around the moral precept that a fulfilling
life is a life of fulfilling work, in the sense that Voltaire recommended in
*Candide* that we each tend our own gardens, seek an occupation that
brings personal satisfaction and yields social benefit, too. The most
obvious work that Gloria and Anthony Patch do in *The Beautiful and
Damned* is to waste their time.

The ruin of their hopes for a life of financial ease comes in the
grey house at the end of an elaborate party, narrated in an oddly styled
chapter entitled "The Broken Lute," which is presented like a play or film
script, complete with stage directions and director's notes along with the
dialogue. Anthony's grandfather, Adam Patch, arrives unexpectedly with
his lawyer and estate manager, Mr Suttleworth, during the height of the
riotous party, and the cantankerous old man is not amused:

SHUTTLEWORTH: (Passionately) Your grandfather thought he would
motor over to see your house. I phoned from Rye and left a message.

(A series of little gasps, emanating, apparently, from nowhere,
from no one, fall into the next pause. ANTHONY is the color of
chalk. GLORIA'S lips are parted and her level gaze at the old
man is tense and frightened. There is not a smile in the room.
No one? Or does CROSS PATCH'S drawn mouth tremble slightly
open, to expose the even rows of his thin teeth? He speaks—five
mild and simple words.)
ADAM PATCH: We'll go back now, Shuttleworth—

(And that is all. He turns, and assisted by his cane goes out through
the hall, through the front door, and with hellish portentousness
his uncertain footsteps crunch on the gravel path under the
August moon.) (231)

Anthony can never patch things up again with his grandfather. The rented
grey house is a scene of family trust torn asunder, and no rapprochement
is possible. The setting also conveys the characteristic rootlessness
of American society, uneasy with the complexities of urban life and
nostalgic for a return to nature, and therefore always living nowhere
in-between. Anthony and Gloria are spoiled and aimless childish adults,
and their temporary residence is dissatisfying because they are forever
dissatisfied, perpetually waiting for the golden moment, hoping for the
release of funds from his grandfather's will, held in limbo financially as
well as spiritually.

After the climactic and life-changing incident at the grey house,
when Anthony and Gloria travel back to New York City by car, passing
through small towns and residential suburbs: "The drab visions of train-side
Mamaroneck, Larchmont, Rye, Pelham Manor, succeeded each other with
intervals of bleak and shoddy wastes posing ineffectually as country"
(236). The inconsequential and vaguely noticed chain of locations reflects
the couple's insecure future and the state of the nation, progressing
haphazardly forward into metropolitan modernity. The narrator conveys
Anthony's thoughts:

Life, it seemed, must be a setting of props around one—otherwise
it was a disaster. There was no rest, no quiet. He had been futile in
longing to drift and dream; no one drifted except to maelstroms, no
one dreamed, without his dreams becoming fantastic nightmares of
indecision and regret. (236)

The imagery of dangerous natural and psychological forces here runs
counter to the Edenic visions of American frontier mythology and the
all-conquering determination of Manifest Destiny. Earlier, Anthony had