February 15.
February 15, 2022
Fatal is the discovery that our friend is fallible, that he has prejudices. He is, then, only prejudiced in our favor. What is the value of his esteem who does not justly esteem another?
Alas! Alas! when my friend begins to deal in confessions, breaks silence, makes a theme of friendship (which then is always something past), and descends to merely human relations!
As long as there is a spark of love remaining, cherish that alone. Only that can be kindled into a flame.
I thought that friendship, that love was still possible between [us]. I thought that we had not withdrawn very far asunder. But now that my friend rashly, thoughtlessly, profanely speaks, recognizing the distance between us, that distance seems infinitely increased. Of our friends we do not incline to speak, to complain, to others; we would not disturb the foundations of confidence that may still be.
Why should we not still continue to live with the intensity and rapidity of infants?
Is not the world, are not the heavens, as unfathomed as ever?
Have we exhausted any joy, any sentiment?
The author of Festus well exclaims:
"Could we but think with the intensityWe love with, we might do great things, I think."
H. D. Thoreau, Journal, February 15, 1851
Live with intensity. See May 24, 1857 ("We want no[t] completeness but intensity of life.")
Recognizing the distance between us, that distance seems infinitely increased. See e.g. January 21, 1852 ("I never realized so distinctly as this moment that I am peacefully parting company with the best friend I ever had,"); February 8, 1857 ("I know that in love there is no mistake, and that every estrangement is well founded.")
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau,
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau
"A book, each page written in its own season,
out-of-doors, in its own locality."
~edited, assembled and rewritten by zphx © 2009-2024
tinyurl.com/hdt-510215
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