Thoreau was a man who thought deeply about anything he thought worth thinking about at all. He was also a man who analyzed thoughts and actions, his own and those of others. Fortunately, for him, he preferred solitude to company. I say that because very few people are interested in thinking deeply about anything.
Thoreau also thought some thoughts needed saying. That's why he occasionally delivered lectures.
At a dinner in his honor, before one of these lectures, a young girl sharply asked, "Whether his lecture would be a nice, interesting story, such as she wished to hear, or whether it would be one of those old philosophical things that she did not care about".
I sighed inwardly as I read this story written by Emerson about his friend, Thoreau.
My own predilections are much like Thoreau's. Whenever I write I try to keep Thoreau's young girl in mind. I fail more often than I succeed.
My natural tendency is to deconstruct, analyze, and abstract nearly everything I think or write about. My friend Tom Simon often accuses me of being didactic.
Tom's more right about that than I care to admit.
Still, I keep trying to do better.
Surely there is some way to turn those, "old philosophical things", into interesting stories - Or, I could just abandon meaningfulness altogether and write only meaninglessly about matters certain to amuse those who do not care to think deeply about anything.
That's what a professional writer would do.
I'm not a professional writer.
I've no interest in being a professional writer. I write what I find interesting to think about. I'm happy if only a few readers agree.
Scattered applause is welcome, but it's not my objective.
My goal is to write well and truly; by which I mean to write proper English sentences that say clearly what I mean to say. That's goal enough for me.
Not that I wouldn't like to please the little girl who wishes for, "a nice, interesting story". It's a perfectly reasonable wish. I wish I could manage it more often than I do. If fact, I feel a responsibility to do so.
I'll keep trying.
Let's see. If Jack and Jill went up the hill to get a pail of water, should I distrust their stated motive. Does it matter why they're going up the hill?
It's none of my business, but I wonder . . . . Young people aren’t aways sure of their own motives. What went on up there? Why did Jill come "tumbling" after. I shouldn't ask. It's none of my business.
Most trouble has been started by someone prying into someone else's business.
Arch Duke Ferdinand would have finished the parade - and WWI never started - if his assassin had minded his own business and not insisted upon prying into someone else's.
There's so much complexity in simplicity, so much that might pertain.
Well, a reader might ask, "What's all that to do with Jack and Jill"! What about Jack & Jill"! Yes, yes, I should get back to that. Ok, here's the truth: Jack & Jill are not that interesting.
They go up the hill; Jill takes a fall on the way down. That's it.
Sadly, things are so uneventful in their neighborhood, that some bystander thinks their trip worth making a rhyme about.
Maybe their story would be more entertaining if I turned it into a metaphor for the intellectual entanglement of things simple and great.
Would Thoreau's little girl be happy with that?
No. I suppose not. I should tell the story. What really happened on the hill? Was Jack and Jill's childhood adventure a precursor to adult romance. What about their friends and parents? Did Jack and Jill have a puppy with them?
Isn't that the sort of thing that makes a story interesting.
People are interested in people - and puppies. They don't care about "those old philosophical things".
Still, I'm inclined to muse the implications and echoes that resound throughout history for even the simplest tale. It's my nature to wonder, then blab about my wonderings to readers who prefer I stick to telling what happened to Jack and Jill.
I intend to do better.
I will.
Jus' sayin'.