Nature

In “Nature,” Emerson writes, “The sun illuminates only the eye of the man, but shines into the eye and the heart of the child. The lover of nature is he whose inward and outward senses are still truly adjusted to each other; who has retained the spirit of infancy even into the era of manhood.” Further in the essay, he writes, “In the woods too, a man casts off his years, as the snake his slough, and at what period soever of life, is always a child. In the woods, is perpetual youth.” In Emerson’s ludicrous essay, these are the only sentences that make sense. After imparting some wisdom, he goes on to spew drivel about nodding to vegetables and becoming an eyeball. The first parts of his essay, however, are insightful. As children, we make forts and hike in the woods and create memories. When, as an adult, we return to these places of sanctuary and innocence, we relive and remember these memories. The woods remind us of youth, rekindling the feelings of immortality, happiness, and carelessness we once so easily felt as children. Emerson is right in stating that “In the woods… a man… is always a child.” He quickly deteriorates into blather, however, when he writes, “[In nature,] I become a transparent eye-ball; I am nothing; I see all; the currents of the Universal Being circulate through me; I am part of particle of God.” This is something Chris McCandless would highlight in his yellow highlighter and savor. He would make notes near the phrase and bask in its inspiration. To me, the statement, and the whole rest of “Nature,” romanticize and complicate trees and dirt. Forests do allow us experience a pure world close to God’s ideal, but I feel no connection to a god when I swat mosquitoes swarming about my head and whack overhanging branches blocking my path. When Emerson writes, “The greatest delight which the fields and woods minister, is the suggestion of an occult relation between man and the vegetable. I am not alone and unacknowledged. They nod to me, and I to them,” “Nature” reveals itself as a mawkish orgy of pseudo-religious superfluousness. Trees drenched in sunlight are beautiful, but Emerson finds purpose and religion too readily in their beauty. His outpouring of love for mud, sticks, and moss are not just overly sentimental, they’re almost insulting. Could Emerson detect God’s work in the wake of a tornado? Would he be able to find poetry in the smoke of a forest fire? Not all things born of nature are precious or reasonable. When one tries to find purpose in something disastrous, explanations are sought for things that cannot be explained. Emerson found purpose in the flutter of leaves; would he be able to find purpose in tragic deaths like Chris McCandless’s ? Not all things have a purpose.