If pressed, I might refer to the wild, extended passage in “Spring,” Thoreau’s ecstatic observation of the thawing sand bank in the second to last chapter in Walden, as an example of “deep naturalism.”
We will have occasion later in the course to engage more directly with “deep ecology,” an inspiration, it would seem, for this critical category of deep naturalism. In the meantime, here is a call for papers I just received for the upcoming ASLE conference in 2015. You can get a feel for the range and mixture of the literary and the environmental that is of interest in contemporary environmental criticism. Perhaps your first Writing Project on Thoreau could be used for this conference?
CFP: Deep Naturalism (ASLE conference, June 23-7 2015, Moscow ID; abstracts by Nov 15)
With its roots in Romanticism and Transcendentalism, ecocriticism has only begun to consider literary naturalism as a genre preoccupied with questions of environment, materialism, and the animal. Naturalism is deeply concerned with the influence of place, space, environment, animals, and nonhuman things on social experience. Rather than framing literary naturalism within its immediate contexts in European and American literature, this panel will consider how naturalist ecologies engage with deep time and wide-ranging geopolitical relations. Possible paper topics might include naturalism’s intersections with:
–agricultulture and soil management
–literary influences on later environmental writing
–modes of transcorporeality
Director of the Literature Program
Department of English
Miami University of Ohio
In the chapter “Spring,” Thoreau’s triumphant yet simple line, so far as I read it, is this one: “Walden was dead and is alive again.”
This is “Walden” as metaphor, Walden as pond and book, the symbolic Walden of “earth’s eye,” potentially anthropomorphized. Walden as a person coming back to life, as we often say we do, coming out of the darkness of winter. The symbolic and metaphorical language of awakening that is basic to the poetry of spring–and clearly important to the agenda of this book.
In this regard, to consider one example from the poetry of spring, we might hear in William Carlos Williams’s famous poem “Spring and All” an echo back to Thoreau’s chapter and the pleasure it takes in waking from the dead.
Spring and All by William Carlos Williams By the road to the contagious hospital under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast-a cold wind. Beyond, the waste of broad, muddy fields brown with dried weeds, standing and fallen patches of standing water the scattering of tall trees All along the road the reddish purplish, forked, upstanding, twiggy stuff of bushes and small trees with dead, brown leaves under them leafless vines- Lifeless in appearance, sluggish dazed spring approaches- They enter the new world naked, cold, uncertain of all save that they enter. All about them the cold, familiar wind- Now the grass, tomorrow the stiff curl of wildcarrot leaf One by one objects are defined- It quickens: clarity, outline of leafBut now the stark dignity of entrance-Still, the profound change has come upon them: rooted, they grip down and begin to awaken
But this is not just metaphor.
To enter Spring is to awaken from the dead of Winter. Williams, it seems to me, reminds us that the symbolic nature of Spring is not merely metaphor–but is also a material reality of life and living. And so the sentence “Walden was dead and is alive again” is symbolic, but not only in the metaphorical sense. Thoreau is thinking very materially, scientifically, ecologically, as well as poetically, about the dynamics of Spring: rooting down and waking up. In other words, Thoreau, like Williams, is thinking about, and writing with, the metonymy of Spring. The chain of associations between the living matter of Spring (all the stuff going on in the thawing sand bank for Thoreau, the rooting down for Williams) and the human life doing the observing (and writing) are figurative but no less material. Walden is matter for symbol, and for poetry, but only because it is living matter–and thus can’t be reduced to symbol for poetry. Both writers focus attention on the Spring that is not merely metaphor, dead leaves in a book, but living poetry–as Thoreau puts it. And in that sense, the environmental vision is to use the metonymy of Spring and all its gritty, material associations–the kind of stuff we might find more readily in a scientific work–to express the poetry of nature. “There is nothing inorganic,” Thoreau writes: Nature is “living poetry like the leaves of a tree.” Spring–the written and the natural phenomenon–is a hybrid product.
To my way of thinking, even though Thoreau uses a simile here (a type of metaphor), the argument is that such poetry (or pattern, to recall Berry) is entirely organic, natural. The metaphor emerges from nature, like leaves from a tree. This is to say that the metaphor emerges originally as metonymy, as a symbolic representation or figure materially connected to what it represents. And Thoreau wants us to remember that and return to it. Walden, we remember each Spring, is not just dead metaphor but is alive, under our feet as well as over our heads.
To the extent that metonymic language tends toward the realistic and to be of relevance to nonfiction prose, particularly nonfiction interested in the art of observation, we will continue to see metonymy as we work our way into American environmental writing. My point in focusing our attention on this–and I recognize it is complicated–is to emphasize and borrow from Thoreau’s own argument: that the ways writers represent nature and try to express it, adequately and otherwise, does not mean that they are doing so only or exclusively as poets/artists or exclusively as scientists/naturalists. As we see in the sand thawing passage in “Spring,” the writer himself (his brains, his bowels) are part of the hybrid production he would portray. This is even there in what may be Thoreau’s pun at the end, in reference to Thaw as a type of Thor. Thoreau’s name was pronounced, in the local vernacular, as Thaw-reau, not as we mostly do, Tha-reau.
Several years ago, while teaching this course and rereading Walden, I began to pursue a particular project of interest to me (and so I hypothesized, of interest to Thoreau and his text). I sought a better grasp of how the rhetorical figure of metonymy mattered in Thoreau’s thinking and writing. Along the way, this project took me into a close reading of Thoreau’s wild “sand foliage” passage in the chapter “Spring,” and deeper into his poetic-scientific interest in language and etymology. I published an essay out of that project in the journal Criticism, “Ecology and Imagination: Emerson, Thoreau, and the Nature of Metonymy.” [you can read it, if you like; will need to be signed in to the College's network.]
The following is part meditation, part introduction, of another literary concept in Thoreau’s writing that (I want to argue) is also ecological: the rhetorical idea of metonymy–a figure of speech and thinking somewhat like metaphor, but different in crucial ways. It is also my example for the kind of deliberate reading of passages in Walden that you are working on for the first writing project.
In “The Pond in Winter” Thoreau observes a “parlor of the fishes” and watches a man fishing for pickerel early in the morning. The language and imagery of the passage (p. 190-91) focuses on metonymy: Thoreau observes the contiguous, material, even digestive but no less symbolic relations between the man, the activity of fishing, and the fish itself. In fact, he argues that the fisherman is better than the naturalist because his very life (and body) has “Nature carried out in him”:
The perch swallows the grub-worm, the pickerel swallows the perch, and the fisherman swallows the pickerel; and so all the chinks in the scale of being are filled.
He goes on to refer to the fish as “Walden all over and all through: are themselves small Waldens.” To understand why this metonymy, or this verbal and literary figuring of relation and scale and association (food chain), is important to Thoreau, we need to remember that he is interested in a Nature that is expressed “without metaphor” (the opening of “Sounds”) and is concerned about the ways that we have come to live at a distance from our symbols. That is to say, Thoreau understands that Nature is symbolic (“transcendent beauty” he sees in the fishes) but that we have lost our connection to the symbols. To see this, we can go back to an earlier chapter where Thoreau mediates on another parlor.
In “House-Warming” Thoreau gets into one of his intense riffs on language–provoking us to think about the words we use, the houses we live in, how we commonly view things. It is another version of Thoreau kicking off the dust of our ways of seeing, thinking, talking. The passage I am thinking of is where he criticizes the “parlors” in houses and how remote they have become from real talk–places of “parlaver.” This is a passage where I would argue it helps to think about some distinctions between metaphor and metonymy–since Thoreau is talking in part about symbols. So, here goes.
The case I am making for Thoreau and how he might influence our understanding of American environmental writing–both looking back on the tradition and looking ahead to what may come–goes something like this.
- That we encounter the tension he encounters, and sometimes despairs but also celebrates in his writing: a tension between poetry and science, between the poetic and the practical, as he puts it in one of his journal entries (with the philosophic being the neutral, middle-ground); the tension between being a writer and being a scientist/naturalist.
- That we need to recognize this encounter not simply as contradiction, but more significantly as a dynamic or (to use a favorite and relevant image from Thoreau) magnetic relation: opposites that attract. In literary terms, this would be paradox; it might also be viewed in terms of irony. I have argued that we need to understand Thoreau in these literary terms because he engages these issues as a writer and literary artist; his approach to nature is self-consciously through the medium of language.
- Another set of literary terms we can add to this idea of dynamic tension (of opposition that paradoxically relates, strange things that are also familiar and attractive) is metaphor/metonymy. I would suggest that Thoreau is thinking about this poetic understanding of language in the ‘parlaver’ passage in Walden (165). There, we see him not only play with language, turn meanings and roots of words over and under, as we have seen him do from the beginning–like a good poetic-naturalist would. The passage, beyond this, opens up to a recognition of how our language has come to influence our living, an influence that lives at too great a distance and remoteness from the natural connections between nature (the world, our lives in the world) and the symbols we necessarily use to move about that world, to live in it, to keep house, as it were. And the problem, as I read Thoreau in this passage (this is my example of a close reading passage I am working on for my essay) can be associated with the difference between metaphor and metonymy.
The metonymic pole emphasizes continguity and context, relations through some sort of material association (think of the very material association of digestion that Thoreau has in view moving from worm to fish to man). This is when we represent through substitution (as all writing and language does, and one could, all thinking), but do so with a figure (word, image) that represents something else by being somehow related or connected with it. A part that represents the whole it relates to; or the reverse, the whole used to represent one of its parts. A classic metonymy for house would be: hearth–one part of the house, but used to represent the idea of a house (its center, its warmth). I think Thoreau is getting at this with his reference to kitchen and workshop. Metonymy is often associated with these art forms: film–and specifically, the close-up in film; Cubism, prose, epic, realism. A key figure of metonymy for writing would be ‘hand’–the connection between the writing and the hand holding the pencil, touching the paper. This sense of metonymy as something that comes from the hand strikes me as particularly relevant to Thoreau, to a writer so interested in the labor of his hands.
Some etymological origins and variations for the word hearth. Noticing that the word “focus” is associated, by way of Latin and fire, we can hear Thoreau saying in this passage (and the book overall) that we need to get back the center of our homes, the fire that sustains us, the heart of our houses. And what I am suggesting is that for Thoreau such a notion–the heart/hearth of our living–is no mere metaphor, or shouldn’t be. It is a symbol whose nearness and reality we have forgotten.
What does this mean? Briefly, metaphor and metonymy are not just two types of figurative language or rhetorical devices, but rather, larger polarities for how we can use language–and some would even argue, for how we can think (since we can’t separate our language from our thinking so easily).
With the metaphoric pole (I am echoing here one of the leading theorists on this issue, the linguist Roman Jakobson), we compare or figure one thing for another thing by way of substitution and similarity. To represent and emphasize the idea of the largeness of a house, for example, we might say/write: the house is a mountain. And notice that though metaphor is about some sort of similarity, it usually works best through difference, through a comparison that is not realistic; the house is a mansion/castle seems less interesting as a metaphor, though it technically is one. Examples of kinds of art/writing that align with the metaphoric: drama, montage, surrealism, poetry, lyric, symbolism.
My argument is that Thoreau is more interested in the metonymy of language–in language that emphasizes its connection and contiguity with the world of its use–the connection between word and world. And moreover, what we see in his concern for life that is passing at such remoteness from its symbols, is a concern for life’s language (or nature’s language, which is also language’s nature) becoming too metaphoric. Another phrase for this would be ‘dead metaphor’–language that we use and forget its origins. This is a point Emerson makes in Nature–giving an entire section to ‘language’ and his theory of its origins.
So, from Thoreau’s perspective, we have forgotten the meaning and significance of hearth and house; forgotten what parlor means (etymologically, linked to speaking, parle). To use our language and the homes we build with language more deliberately–and the larger home, we remember, is earth’s home, ecos, from Greek–means to use it more metonymically. To that extent, this could mean that we environmental writers (at least from where Thoreau is sitting in his parlor) need to let more of the scientific perspective (if science is traditionally resistant to metaphor, it would seem to be more focused on metonymy: finding parts that can suggest larger wholes; inductive analysis) into the poetry of our writing. But just as importantly, and just as Thoreau will turn from expressing concern with poetry to concern with science, metonymy is still figurative, symbolic, human-made perceptions of nature. Going “without metaphor” doesn’t mean going beyond language into some pure, objective realm of nature. If Thoreau has metonymy in mind, as I think he does, going beyond metaphor toward metonymy means that we digest Nature by recognizing the extent of our relations within it. This makes Walden both symbolic and material, real–all over and all through us. Walden is under our feet as well as over our heads–and in our intestines.
For more background on the poetics of metonymy and metaphor, that is, what each means as a figure of language and how each works in writing, take a look at this discussion I posted in my Nonfiction: Essay course that explores further the poetics of Metaphor and Metonymy.