One day in our travels the history largely revolved around literary figures, their homes, their writing and their inspiration. That was the day we started in Salem at the House of Seven Gables made famous by Nathaniel Hawthorne and ended at Walden Pond, Thoreau's inspiration.
In between we saw Orchard House, home of the Alcotts; The Wayside, home at various times of Hawthorne and the Alcotts and Margaret Sidney; and Emerson's home.
The most fascinating thing of the whole day? For me it was a comment on an informational sign in the house where Hawthorne once resided. I haven't been able to confirm it, but it struck me.
It said Hawthorne was a bit of a recluse at times and that when one of his books got bad reviews, he gathered up the copies he'd given to his friends and burned them all.
That just does something to me. Me, who can't throw away an interesting article or give away an old shirt. Me, who doesn't sell many books but keeps writing new ones anyway. Me, who can't take 20 steps in a new place without taking a picture of it and can't delete even the bad ones because someday I might want to see things from just that angle.
Because you can't relive it. Or rewrite it. Or recapture it.
So you have to embrace it. Imperfections and all.
Even if no one else does.
Top: The House of Seven GablesAbove: Orchard House
Below: The Wayside
Below that: Emerson's home
Below that: Emerson's home
No comments:
Post a Comment