Pony on the lam

Yesterday I met my Bloganonymous Neighbour (BN) at the end of the drive just as I was going out on the bike. I had just said hello to her daughter who was walking the Shetland Pony along the lane.

"Ah", I said. "You have ordered the sheep." She had the look of a woman who has just ordered a sheep and I told her so. 

She laughed, and said that they are now on a plateau animal-wise and are likely to stop at the current 17 or so. But I know that she desperately wants a sheep. No, I have no idea why.

I should have said (but didn't) that this is no plateau but merely base camp. Her younger daughter is a strategist of epic talent and staggering persuasive powers, and has been gradually acquiring pets on an ascending scale of size. She has been planning the pony for a year.

Anyway BN wanted to talk bikes as her abused bike is always suffering. If it were a person it would whimper continually, and if it was a horse, you would feel kind in having it shot.

So we chatted bike rescue for a bit.

And then she said that she wanted to apologise for the pony. (Why do I always want to call it a horse ?)

It turned out that on Wednesday this week, the horse dentist had visited to do something to the horse's teeth as it had clearly been a stranger to dentists in the past. The horse did not take kindly to this dental assault, and made a bolt for freedom, ending up playing hide and seek in my garden with the said dentist and anyone else who had an hour to spare.

I had not seen any of this kerfuffle at all.

But it did remind me of the day I woke up to find a dozen cows doing a sort of chorus-line tap routine all over the garden. Cows are much beefier (oh dear) than Shetland ponies, and make a huge mess hoof print-wise. They had got in in the night, and had established camp and set to eating a magnificently varied breakfast, starting on shrubs and flowers and leaving the lawn till last. When they had done it looked as if we were living on a set for some muddily surreal film about the first war.

BN felt better about the pony after hearing about the cows and went off happy, and armed with some tips on How to be Nice to Bikes.

The great thing about all of this is seeing BN's daughter so blissed out with undiluted happiness. It's amazing that a pony could make such a difference. The girl is likely to expire of sheer delight if she is not careful.

Apart from sheep, BN doesn't really care much for pets, but has a home full of them. Garrison Keillor comes to mind again:

Nothing you do for children is ever wasted.

Good neighbours

Laughing with my bloganonymous neighbour last week, I told her that it was like living next door to the Railway Children.

Smart, funny, musical, arty, caring, passionate - her kids are a real joy and always have been. They are just life-enhancing and warm the heart with an interior smile that lasts all day.

When we were chatting, their dad was busy creating a sort of paddock in the front garden for the latest addition to the kids' menagerie.

Meet Beauty. She is the one on the left with the straight hair.

When they go away, I look after the assembled multitudes, which now include Beauty, a miniature Shetland Pony who is sampling my lawn. I only hope moss isn't bad for SPs.

Multitudes ?

Well, without getting into Noah's ark territory, the last count was:

One delightful dog
One cat
Two rabbits, one excessively hairy, the other simply loopy
Four hamsters in two space-station style complexes
Two impossibly optimistic budgies
A lugubrious goldfish and his small shoal of groupies
Two guinea pigs

And that's it. I think. The roster changes as pets come and go, but the trend is definitely upwards.

Oh yes, and in the spring lambs often come to stay for a while.

In Garrison Keillor's words: Thank you, Lord, for this good life, and forgive us if we do not love it enough.

There must be some kind of way out of here

Listening to the debate about Europe has been a pretty depressing activity, in spite of the fact that I am a huge fan of Europe, especially if that means closer integration.

The trouble is that the debate itself, and the way it is being conducted, is so alienating.

It does raise some questions, though.

Isn't it about time that we looked carefully at our adversarial approach to politics ?  The house of commons is still working as if there were two parties and two parties only: government and opposition. Result ? Discussion which is not conducive to any useful synthesis of opposing arguments. Adversarialism quickly leads to an unedifying slanging match, and from there to personal attacks.

Do political discussions have to be run along the lines of formal debates ? If formal debates were ever useful, surely they too were carefully structured to reflect a discussion between two sides. We have a far more nuanced collection of party-based political views than ever before. And debates encourage scoring points off each other, which in turn leads to the kind of personal attacks which make politics so ugly. PMQs is a great example of how to turn politics into a burlesque, and how one side can undermine the the other, no matter how genuine and sensible the point raised for discussion.

Could politicians find ways to make themselves appear trustworthy ?  It would be helpful to think that when a politician made a contribution to a discussion, it was because they had some belief in that point of view. Cabinet responsibility and whipping lead to a perception first of insincerity, and then to a lack of integrity.

Whatever the reasons, there is growing public distrust in politicians, and not just in the UK. It is a hole below the waterline which leads to alienation and disaffection which weakens democracy as people do not turn up to vote.

What could the political elites do to project a more attractive image and regain a little trust ? That they need to is not in question. It's how they might do it which is interesting.

If you feel that the politicos are doing just fine, and are perfectly trustworthy, try this little test.

If there was some dreadful disaster which seemed overwhelmingly threatening to you and the people you loved, and all choices seemed dire who would you trust, as an outsider unknown to you personally, to give you good advice and a truthful assessment of the facts ?

If you would put your trust in a politician above everyone else, how many can you name in whom you would have implicit confidence.

I bet your list is a very short one.

That seems pretty sad to me.    
 

Father's day

It is fifty years ago today that my bloganonymous best friend's dad died.

It is a solemn kind of milestone, and we talked about how to keep the day.

He left India in search of a new life here, and she remembers waiting as a child for his return.

He never did return. 

A funny, laughter-inducing, smart man, laden down with impressive degrees and with a good job in the Indian Government, he set out for England only to be met with the casual, callous  and unthinking racism of the mid-sixties. He had a huge determination to succeed, and an unquenchable thirst for learning.

In spite of all the obstacles he encountered, he was always striving, always looking to make a contribution, always working hard to build a future for his family.

He died, aged 34, of status asthmaticus. 

My friend lit a candle in her kitchen which burned quietly all day. She texted her brothers to do the same.

After 50 years of absence, no flame burns as brightly as he does in the hearts he touched.

Today reminded me of an earlier, similar heartbreak:

Ah, my God, what is this land called America ?
So many people travelling there
I will go too, for I am still young.
God, our Lord, will grant me good luck there.

You my wife, stay here till you hear from me.
When you get my letter, put everything in order.
Mount a raven-black steed, and fly like the wind
Fly across the ocean, to meet me here.

Ah, when she arrived in this strange land
Here in McKeesport, this valley of fire
Only his grave, his grave did she find
Over it bitterly, oh so bitterly she cried.

Ah, my husband, what have you done ?
What can you say to these children, to these children you've orphaned?
Tell them, my wife, not to wait, not to wait, not to wait for me
Tell them I lie here, in the American land.

And a day later, I thought of Horace's good advice:

                   Sapias: vina liques et spatio brevi 
spem longam reseces. Dum loquimur fugerit invida
aetas. Carpe diem quam minimum credula postero

Be smart: make wine, and cut back your long term ambitions to fit your short time. Even as we we talk, time has fled away. Make the most of today, and trust as little as possible to tomorrow.

Chalk and cheese

Martial wrote fourteen books that we know about, and was witty, funny, a keen observer and a deft user of language. He saw Catullus as a model, and wrote some poetry of huge tenderness and sensitivity.

He also wrote poetry that was thought scandalous in later centuries, particularly in England, where he was air-brushed from the curriculum - from any curriculum - for far too long. 

Martial was not considered safe. Even Housman, who loved Martial and wrote insightful scholarly commentaries on the poems, did so in Latin so as not to frighten the horses.

Martial was a Roman of the first century BCE and unfettered by the mores and political correctness of today. He had, naturally, a view of relationships and sexuality which reflected the social norms of the Empire.

Here's a poem which gives a slight clue as to why he has offended the puritan tendency down the years. I have tried to catch the feeling and sense of the poem rather than worry about word-to-word correspondence.

Wife, you can get with my program or go:

I am no stuffy patriarch.

I like to drink into the small hours

You’re stern and rise early with a drink of water.

You love the dark, while I like 

to rattle the headboard with all the lights on.

You like to keep well hidden in layers of clothing

But for me, no girl can be naked enough in bed.

Kisses soft as doves excite me, but yours 

would be right for greeting a granny in the morning.

You don’t help things along with a wriggle,

A giggle or a touch: it’s more like a rite for you.

Whenever Hector’s wife rode him, 

the servants jerked off outside the door, 

and when he was snoring, you know where she kept her hand.

You say no to anal sex: Cornelia gave it to Gracchus, 

Julia to Pompey, and Porcia even gave in to Brutus.

While Ganymede was mixing the drinks Juno took his place with Jupiter.

If you want to be a blue-stocking, 

that’s fine by day: but I need a tiger at night.

Uxor, vade foras aut moribus utere nostris:
non sum ego nec Curius nec Numa nec Tatius.
Me jucunda juvant tractae per pocula noctes:
tu properas pota surgere tristis aqua.
Tu tenebris gaudes: me ludere teste lucerna
et juvat admissa rumpere luce latus.
Fascia te tunicaeque obscuraque pallia celant:
at mihi nulla satis nuda puella jacet.
basia me capiunt blandas imitata columbas:
tu mihi das aviae qualia mane soles.
Nec motu dignaris opus nec voce juvare
nec digitis, tamquam tura merumque pares:
masturbabantur Phrygii post ostia servi,
Hectoreo quotiens sederat uxor equo,
et quamvis Ithaco stertente pudica solebat
illic Penelope semper habere manum.
Pedicare negas: dabat hoc Cornelia Graccho,
Julia Pompeio, Porcia, Brute, tibi;
dulcia Dardanio nondum miscente ministro
pocula Juno fuit pro Ganymede Jovi.
Si te delectat gravitas, Lucretia toto
sis licet usque die: Laida nocte volo.

I'm a celebrity - send me a new coat

Martial, writing in the first century CE, makes Rome so real that you can almost smell it. You hear the sounds of the city, catch snatches of conversation, see Rome from the street. 

And the emotional content of his stuff is so contemporary that it is hard to believe it comes from two millennia ago.

But almost because of the similarities, you have to remind yourself that Rome was a different place, and that counts in this lovely little poem which has an unasked question at its hidden heart.

The poem is 6.82, and I have stuck it at the end of this post in Latin (wow, but it sounds great in Latin) and in my effort at a translation.

You have to really flex your imagination here to try and see the actual event that the poem describes, and figure out what is happening. The poem only gives some of the details. A Roman audience would not have needed to imagine what was happening, as the scene would have been so much more familiar to them.

Martial is telling a tale to Rufus, his friend along the lines of "You'll never guess what happened to me last week." Martial is out and about in Rome when a stranger spots him. He sizes Martial up, and after a bit of thought, comes across and asks if he is Martial, Martial the poet: ”You” he says. “You.... Aren’t you Martial ? THE Martial ? The Martial whose racy jokes everyone knows who’s not deaf or Dutch ?”  

That hesitation, the slight uncertainty, is right there in the Latin. It's a bit like somebody wondering if it is really Adele leaning over the fish fingers in Tesco.

Martial liked fame, and loved thinking that his books were widely read. So being recognised was just up his via. He nodded (modestly, he hoped) to acknowledge that indeed it was him.

Immediately things go off the rails. The stranger, who clearly had boundary issues and all the tact of a flying hammer, can't believe how scruffy Martial's cloak is, and says so, asking why it is so terrible.

Martial isn't fazed, and is very happy to make himself the butt of the joke. He tells the guy that it is because he is a terrible poet, and then closes the poem by asking Rufus to send him a better cloak to avoid further embarrassment.

You can imagine the exchange so easily.

If the incident actually happened, and wasn't just Martial's elaborate way of asking Rufus for a new cloak, the big question is: how on earth did the stranger recognise Martial in the first place ? The recognition seems visual. But there was no TV, no Internet, no pictures in books. Rome was a huge city by this time - maybe a million people. So how could the guy know it was Martial ?

Martial obviously did not look like a celeb on the loose, at least cloak-wise. Judging by the moth-eaten cloak, he wouldn't be dripping Roman bling. He would not be carrying a large POET badge.

It could be that the stranger had seen Martial at a reading somewhere. Or perhaps he had bumped into him on the circuit of saying hello to patrons that Martial was so glad to say goodbye to.

But maybe the recognition wasn't visual at all.

Is there a clue in what the stranger says to Martial ? He suggests that everyone except a deaf Dutchman had heard Martial's schtick. He does not mention that they might have read him or seen him, but heard him. It might be that from a slight distance, the stranger identified Martial not by sight, but by hearing him.

It couldn't have been the voice alone. That would have been as unfamliar as what Martial looked like. It must have been that he recognised what Martial was saying, or reciting. He clearly knew what Martial's work was about, and well enough to identify Martial himself.

What might have been happening ?

It seems at least possible that Martial was reciting something familiar in public, in the street. Maybe his latest hit, the poem that was doing the rounds at the time, the joke that everyone was laughing at that week.

There is good evidence that Martial was a showman, and even what we might think of as a performance poet. His poem about Issa is a great example of that: he forces you to hear dynamics when reading that can only have been designed for aurally amusing an audience. It is easy to imagine him entertaining a little crowd on a street corner. The laughter would draw attention.

So, though I am no Mary Beard, that's what seems likely to me: Martial was recognised by what he was reciting impromtu to a small audience in public, which was overheard by a stranger who was familiar with the work but had never been to one of his readings, and did not know him by sight.

Was he boosting sales outside Attrectus' bookshop, where we know his books were sold, or outside some other outlet ?

We can only imagine, but the vignette he sketches is so human, so carefully observed that it tempts us to visualise the scene.

The great thing here is that nobody ever damaged poetry by using their imagination. Poetry heals well.

Here is the poem itself. 

Quidam me modo, Rufe, diligenter
inspectum, uelut emptor aut lanista,
cum uoltu digitoque subnotasset,
"Tune es, tune" ait "ille Martialis,
cuius nequitias iocosque nouit
aurem qui modo non habet Batauam?"
Subrisi modice, leuique nutu
me quem dixerat esse non negaui.
"Cur ergo" inquit "habes malas lacernas?"
Respondi: "quia sum malus poeta."
Hoc ne saepius accidat poetae,
mittas, Rufe, mihi bonas lacernas.


Just recently, Rufus, some bloke looked me over carefully
As if he was a buyer, or talent spotting for gladiators.
When he’d measured me with eye and forefinger and had made a mental note
He says: ”You” he says. “You.... Aren’t you Martial ? THE Martial ?
The Martial whose racy jokes everyone knows who’s not deaf or Dutch ?”
I gave a modest flicker of a smile, made an almost imperceptible nod
And did not deny that I was who he thought.
“Then why,” he says, “why do you have such a terrible cloak ?”
“Because" I shot back, "I’m a terrible poet.”
Hey Rufus – so that this doesn’t happen to me more often
How about sending me a decent cloak ?

Ofsted and the Emperor's new clothes

When I was working, I declined to work for Ofsted, even at the time when LA staff were rushing into inspection like Gadarene swine. Very like Gadarene swine.

Authority causes me problems, and authority built on such shaky foundations as Ofsted always was doubly so.

The ragtag collection of inspectors, armed with the Framework for Inspection, work on the premise that judging schools was scientific, that if you follow the framework all will be well.

The Emperor's New Clothes come to mind, and all has not been well.
 
Based on this intellectually squalid and distinctly dishonest premise, hundreds of schools have been named and shamed down the twenty-odd years of Ofsted's existence, careers have been wrecked, and there have even been occasional suicides.

The truth is now, as it always was, that two teams of inspectors will have very different views about the same thing, and will draw different conclusions from the same evidence.

A particular bugbear for me was Ofsted's insistence that inspectors could judge progress made by pupils in a single lesson.

It's bullshit.

We have had one or two outstanding Chief Inspectors, where "outstanding" means "almost human". They tended to be short stay, like car parks. The ones that stood the course have tended to be educational Taliban, extremists with an idee fixe. They are often one-trick ponies, with a small range of one-size-fits-all ideas. 

It is very rare to feel sorry that a Chief Inspector is leaving.

And Sir Michael Wilshaw is leaving, probably to a vast and heartfelt collective sigh of relief from teachers everywhere.

It is reported that his next project is at Buckingham University, developing a scheme to fast-track graduates to headship in two years. Oh dear. Oh dear.

If you don't believe me, well, take a look at this excellent piece in the Guardian by Andrew Morrish, himself a former inspector. It's a wonderfully succinct critique of what is wrong with Ofsted. Or rather, of some of what is wrong with Ofsted. To deal with everything this is wrong with Ofsted would take several complete issues of the Guardian. There would not even be room for cartoons. Mind you, if Ofsted filled the pages, there would be plenty to laugh at.

Schools, and the people who work so hard in them, deserve better than Ofsted. They really do. They deserve better. And now.


 

Chess: its most unlikely player

School did not do a lot for Michelle, and vice versa. 

She was a difficult kid, and the best you could say was that she was strong. She was no good at maths or English, was ungainly at all known sports, and showed no interest in blowing recorders or banging cymbals. And she was never going to be picked as the lead in the Christmas play.

Michelle had a look of utter bewilderment, which she deployed often. Her eyes would widen, her jaw would drop slightly, and she would stare silently at whatever it was had amazed her. Maybe the 9 times table, or maybe having to write a haiku. A haiku ?

When Michelle arrived in my chess club one wet Thursday lunchtime, something in my heart wanted to die. This was not going to be an easy gig. Besides having the attention span of a gnat, Michelle could be disruptive over a wide radius. It was raining and she was looking for something to do. I had no idea why she had decided that chess was a good idea.

Chess club was reasonably quiet, and kids who were not playing perched around the place watching games. Michelle joined in. Unusually she paid attention, and asked kids questions about what was happening, how the pieces moved.

I asked her if she played chess at home. "No'" she said. "I haven't seen it before."

The next week she came back, and this time had a go. She had remembered the moves from the week before, and all the names of the pieces. She seemed to be on mission. I watched with interest.

Within a matter of weeks, Michelle was beating most of the other kids, who gathered round to watch her play. Within months she was beating members of staff, sometimes two at a time.

Michelle didn't think about the next move, but a couple ahead of that. And she did that rare thing: she worked out what her opponents options might be, and likely responses to each of them.

She was quickly pretty much unbeatable in school, and went on to play in chess teams when she left primary school.

For the first time, she found other kids suddenly looking up to her with respect. She didn't have to fool around to get attention. Teachers and kids were similarly amazed.

Michelle had great spatial awareness, and an effortless ability in playing chess. She was, in every sense, a natural. She learned notation quickly and with consummate ease. She enjoyed the complexity of the game, and she knew, yes she really knew, that here was something she could do which other kids could not. The shoe was on the other foot for once.

Her confidence improved, and she was holding conversations now on a completely different level. Her parents were by turns uncomprehending, stunned and proud. Nobody played chess at home, and they had no idea where Michelle's skill had come from.

It would be great to say that her writing and maths and general schoolwork improved. They didn't. Chess did not really make a difference to her academic work, though she was keen to read what she could about the game. Chess wasn't a magic bullet. And it did not need to be. Michelle had a talent which was valuable in itself. She knew it.

As a teacher, little unexpected insights into learning often made me challenge my preconceptions about learning, and reminded me over and again that we limit learning, we ignore talent, and give it no space to breathe. Formal education must choke so much prodigious potential for success which is just waiting to be discovered and nurtured. Talent doesn't thrive in boxes. Too often, screamingly too often, it dies unfound, unwanted, unloved.

What makes us think we can afford this egregious waste ?

I have no clue about how Michelle's story ended, or what became of her chess playing ability.

In teaching you see so many exciting chapters, and rarely get the opportunity to see how the plot unfolds once the kids leave.

Maybe Michelle found the endgame she deserved. I really hope so.

Make your vote count for the junior doctors

Have you been to hospital lately ? Or has anyone you know been to hospital ?

If so, the chances are that you were seen by a junior doctor, and the odds are that you got excellent service.

I don't know about you, but I like the people who have my life in their hands to be alert, happy, stress-free, and not at the end of a 90 hour week. 

They are paid a lot of money, and in my view deserve every penny. And the same goes for all the other NHS staff who do such a great job in spite of constant re-organisations and government interference.

The NHS helps us all. Sooner or later, the large majority of us will need to get help from the NHS and its staff.

The government are determined to defeat the doctors, much as a previous government was set on defeating the miners. The big difference is that doctors may be a lot more able and willing to emigrate to find places where they are valued and looked after.

The government is not in listening mode. It is in 'smack of firm government' mode. So far it has not listened to the junior doctors, it has not listened to common sense, and it is not listening to public opinion. 

Luckily, there is a rare opportunity on 23rd June to have the government listen to our views.

After the referendum, half of us are going to feel suicidal or at least in possible need of medical support. So why not make a real difference with your vote on something that matters at least as much as Europe ?

I think everyone who supports the doctors should use their ballot to say so. Ignore the question on the paper, and write, in an undoctorly legible hand "I support the junior doctors".

The government, desperate for every vote on Europe, might worry about this strategy. If sufficient millions make it a credible threat, I think there might be a sudden unwonted willingness to get the doctors dispute settled fairly.

Come on. We can do it. It starts here. Use your ballot to some good effect. 

 

Abraham Lincoln's beard

Abraham Lincoln's beard ? Really ?

Yes, really. It's not as boring as you might be thinking. 

Honest Abe must had had the same common touch as Obama, who has just been telling us some obvious truths with ordinary charisma and directness.

In October 1860, when he was campaigning for the Presidency, Lincoln got a letter he could so easily have ignored. It was from Grace Bedell, aged 11.

Dear Sir,

My father has just come from the fair and brought home your picture and Mr Hamlin's.

I am a little girl only eleven years old but want you should be President of the United States very much so I hope you won't think me very bold to write such a great man as you are. 

Have you any little girls about as large as I am if so give them my love and tell them to write to me if you cannot answer this letter.

I have got 4 brothers and part of them will vote for you any way and if you will let your whiskers grow I will try and get the rest of them to vote for you you would look a great deal better for your face is so thin.

All the ladies like whiskers and they would tease their husbands to vote for you and then you would be President. My father is going to vote for you and if I was a man I would vote for you too but I will try and get everyone to vote for you that I can.

I think that rail fence around your picture makes it look very pretty.

I have got a baby sister she is nine weeks old and is just as cunning as can be.

When you dirct your letter direct to
Grace Bedell
Chautauqua County, New York

I must not write any more answer this letter right off.

Goodbye

Grace Bedell

Grace half expected to get no reply. But just four days after the date of her letter, Lincoln, who must have been exhausted from relentless campaigning, wrote back:

My Dear little Miss,

Your very agreeable letter of the 15th is received. I regret the necessity of saying I have no daughters. I have three sons, one seventeen, one nine, and one seven years of age. They, with their mother, constitute my whole family. As to the whiskers, having never worn any, do you not think people would call it a piece of silly affection if I were to begin it now ?

Your very sincere well-wisher,

A Lincoln

On his way to Washington for his inauguration the following February, Lincoln's train stopped near Westfield where Grace lived. After talking to the crowd he asked for Grace Bedell. He knew she would be, as he had arranged for her to be there with her father.

Grace stood on the platform by Lincoln, now with his familiar beard. At 1930 mm tall (6'4") and stick-thin he must have towered above her. He lifted her into the air, maybe to give her a closer view of the beard (!), gave her a politician's kiss, and put her back on the platform. Grace was so overcome that she forgot to give him the flowers she had brought just in case.

Before Grace and still faintly cadaverous

After Grace - not quite cuddly, but trying hard

I have known this story forever, but internet serendipity (there ought to be a special name for that) found me the almost equally lovely story of Liz Bedell, who had never believed the family legend about her grandfather's Aunt Grace who had written to Lincoln.

You can read her story here, and see the originals of the letters Grace and Lincoln exchanged.

It's real stature to be prepared to sweat the small stuff.

 

I love a broad margin to my life: thanks, Mr Thoreau

Who shaped your thinking ? What made you really tick the way you do ? What were your key influences, and who were your enduring heroes and heroines ?

Nearly fifty years ago a good friend introduced me to Thoreau and I was instantly hooked. Thoreau, known so often by his surname, was Henry David Thoreau, and his most famous work was Walden. Multiple copies of Walden litter my shelves, and Thoreau in my house is a bit like urban rats: you are never more than 2 m from a copy wherever you sit down.

I hated school and never enjoyed working. Both seemed like a waste of my sunny days. There were so many things that seemed so much more absorbing, satisfying, enchanting. It has always seemed to me that any experience where you have to wear a jacket is likely to be a waste of time, as well as a crime against common sense.

Thoreau, with a turbo-charged brain several sizes larger than mine, appeared to have thought the same sort of thing. Not for him the lucrative family pencil business, but rather the call of an entirely different reality.

I love Catullus and Martial, and revel in their verse. But Thoreau shifted my whole word view seismically as nobody else ever did.

I wanted to escape from the life that beckoned me to dull and empty convention. Thoreau had a larger vision. He wanted to escape, not from his life, but to a radically other way of living.

Thoreau's account of his life at Walden Pond isn't just a simple description of an alternative. It is a call to arms, an incitement to notice truths which are right under our noses, and yet are never noticed.

There is never a day, no, not a single day, when I do not feel that my life is changed because of Thoreau. Thoreau was like the last lens that the optometrist holds up in a sight test which suddenly pulls the chart into sharp focus. He made perfect sense in an exciting world that convention conspires to make dull. Some mental process filters all my thinking past Thoreau. His was a message of irrepressible hope and the vibrancy of possibility, and he has seen me through some dark days as well as summer uplands.

In my sitting room is a carving: I love a broad margin to my life. It is a quote from Thoreau. I have tried to live my life in not Thoreau's broad margin, but in my own. That I have a broad margin at all is thanks to Henry David Thoreau, and every day I am grateful to him.

Let Thoreau himself explain. The 'cars' he mentions are railroad cars, railway wagons. Easy enough to imagine what he would have thought of the cars of today.

A broad margin of leisure is as beautiful in a man's life as in a book. Haste makes waste, no less in life than in housekeeping. Keep the time, observe the hours of the universe, not of the cars. What are threescore years and ten hurriedly and coarsely lived to moments of divine leisure in which your life is coincident with the life of the universe?

Here, below, is a short section from Walden, where is talking about his experience in his first year at the Pond. (Forgive the US 'z'.)

I did not read books the first summer; I hoed beans. Nay, I often did better than this. There were times when I could not afford to sacrifice the bloom of the present moment to any work, whether of the head or hands. I love a broad margin to my life. Sometimes, in a summer morning, having taken my accustomed bath, I sat in my sunny doorway from sunrise till noon, rapt in a revery, amidst the pines and hickories and sumachs, in undisturbed solitude and stillness, while the birds sing around or flitted noiseless through the house, until by the sun falling in at my west window, or the noise of some traveller's wagon on the distant highway, I was reminded of the lapse of time. I grew in those seasons like corn in the night, and they were far better than any work of the hands would have been. They were not time subtracted from my life, but so much over and above my usual allowance. I realized what the Orientals mean by contemplation and the forsaking of works. For the most part, I minded not how the hours went. The day advanced as if to light some work of mine; it was morning, and lo, now it is evening, and nothing memorable is accomplished. Instead of singing like the birds, I silently smiled at my incessant good fortune. As the sparrow had its trill, sitting on the hickory before my door, so had I my chuckle or suppressed warble which he might hear out of my nest. My days were not days of the week, bearing the stamp of any heathen deity, nor were they minced into hours and fretted by the ticking of a clock; for I lived like the Puri Indians, of whom it is said that "for yesterday, today, and tomorrow they have only one word, and they express the variety of meaning by pointing backward for yesterday forward for tomorrow, and overhead for the passing day." This was sheer idleness to my fellow-townsmen, no doubt; but if the birds and flowers had tried me by their standard, I should not have been found wanting. A man must find his occasions in himself, it is true. The natural day is very calm, and will hardly reprove his indolence.

Read him. Give him a try. But beware: you might need to adjust your margin settings.