The greater part of what my neighbors call good I believe in my soul to be bad, and if I repent of anything, it is very likely to be my good behavior. What demon possessed me that I behaved so well? You may say the wisest thing you can, old man — you who have lived seventy years, not without honor of a kind — I hear an irresistible voice which invites me away from all that.
--Henry David Thoreau, Walden
A story this morning on NPR on Thoreau induced flashbacks . . .
In 1968, a college sophomore for whom Walden had become my Bible (I could quote large chunks word for word), I read a story in the paper about a Massachusetts archaeologist (his name was Robbins) who had recently discovered the long-misplaced site of the cabin HDT had built and had constructed an exact replica of it in his own backyard. On a whim, I wrote to him, asking if I might stay the night in Thoreau's little house. To my amazement, he said yes.
With BFs Larry Cummings and Ed Dobosh, I flew to Boston (my first-ever plane flight, BTW) and, thanks to Robbins' hospitality, enjoyed a night in Thoreau's world. (We barely slept, of course.)