The Library of America (that narrow red-white-blue
ribbon on the jacket seems timely this year, rather than timeless)
offers authoritative, durable editions of American classics with
minimal editorial commentary. The series brought out a volume
of Henry Thoreau's major prose works in 1985 under the able hand
of Robert F. Sayre, and now we have Thoreau's Collected Essays
and Poems in a single volume assembled by Elizabeth Witherell,
past president of the Thoreau Society and chief editor of the
Princeton Edition.
It is an insightful experience
to be able to read through Thoreau's 27 essays in plain chronological
order rather than segregated into the traditional categories
- social reform, travel, natural history, etc. Reading "Slavery
in Massachusetts" immediately following the mystic idealism
of "Love" and "Chastity & Sensuality"
discloses the profound kinship between Thoreau's purist standards
in regard to body and spirit, and the moral absolutism that made
an uncompromising abolitionist of the man who never joined an
antislavery organization.
Chronologically, Thoreau's
three tributes to that other pure abolitionist John Brown are
flanked in this edition by his finest late writings on nature
and science, "Autumnal Tints" on the near side and
"The Succession of Forest Trees," "Wild Apples"
and "Huckleberries" (his final essays) on the other.
It is plain that Thoreau's high-minded and controversial social
vision was rooted in the same rich seedbed as the late nature
writings, those visionary admixtures of science and sensuality.
As to Thoreau's poetry, Witherell,
a lifelong expert, establishes a canon of 203 works ranging from
the young classicist's careful conceits to eccentric-looking
couplets extracted from journal entries as late as 1860. Whether
Thoreau's poetic output gains as much as his prose from raw chronological
order rather than editorial arrangement is debatable. It is hard
to make much of the seven-word "All things decay / &
so must our sleigh" without the context of Thoreau's haunting
meditation on March that is its matrix (Journal, March 25, 1860).
On the other hand, when for example "Sic Vita" is shorn
of its customary anecdotal context (flung through Lucy Brown's
window with a bunch of violets, etc.), we read it more closely
for its own sake, feeling empathy with the rootless blossoms
as they droop and wither, then detachment as we ponder Thoreau's
cyclical vision: death makes room for new life.