But I soon found I could move at
more ease, by giving the narrative at first hand. (Then there is a
humiliating lesson one learns, in serene hours, of a fine day or
night. Nature seems to look on all fixed-up poetry and art as
something almost impertinent.)
Thus I went on, years following, various seasons and areas, spinning
forth my thought beneath the night and stars, (or as I was confined to
my room by half-sickness,) or at midday looking out upon the sea, or
far north steaming over the Saguenay's black breast, jotting all down
in the loosest sort of chronological order, and here printing from my
impromptu notes, hardly even the seasons group'd together, or anything
corrected--so afraid of dropping what smack of outdoors or sun or
starlight might cling to the lines, I dared not try to meddle with
or smooth them. Every now and then, (not often, but for a foil,) I
carried a book in my pocket--or perhaps tore out from some broken or
cheap edition a bunch of loose leaves; most always had something of
the sort ready, but only took it out when the mood demanded. In that
way, utterly out of reach of literary conventions, I re-read many
authors.
I cannot divest my appetite of literature, yet I find myself
eventually trying it all by Nature--_first premises_ many call it, but
really the crowning results of all, laws, tallies and proofs. (Has it
never occur'd to any one how the last deciding tests applicable to a
book are entirely outside of technical and grammatical ones, and that
any truly first-class production has little or nothing to do with the
rules and calibres of ordinary critics? or the bloodless chalk of
Allibone's Dictionary? I have fancied the ocean and the daylight, the
mountain and the forest, putting their spirit in a judgment on our
books.
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