Here ares some thoughts related to the writing project your are working on, and the writing intensive focus of this course. In addition to focusing on the poetics of environmental writing (our close, deliberate reading of Thoreau’s language), we also need to give attention to our rhetorical perspective: the fact that we are arguing for our particular understanding of Walden and its complexities. So here is some insight and a strategy.
A crucial problem professors tend to find in student writing at all levels (introductory to advanced) is the absence of a problem. An argument needs a problem to argue with, explore further, and to solve. When that problem is absent, we end up with a paper that may technically have some sort of thesis statement (“Thoreau’s writing in his later years is significant”) but also has no real academic purpose. Who cares? Why should that matter? Who says otherwise? As Gerald Graff would put it, in the absence of a problem (colleagues in the social or natural sciences might call this a ‘research question’ if not explicitly use the word ‘problem’) students tend to have a thesis that asserts, “How ’bout that Wordsworth!”
I am thinking, then, about the problem of the missing problem in student writing, in thesis-based writing or academic argument. However, this problem is complicated by the fact that we continue to see a missing or flawed “thesis” from students who can quote us, chapter and verse, the characteristics of a thesis. I see this ‘thesis problem” in English 101 from all levels of writers; I have seen it, as well, in a senior thesis–where an otherwise well written and developed thesis is missing a clear statement of the argument. My own argument is that the problem lies somewhere in the ways we define a “thesis” and–so I would assert–fail to help students grasp that an academic argument needs to move beyond a thesis statement. To emphasize this move, I have shifted my focus from “thesis” to “argument.” To help me in that move to argument, and to what I call a “moving argument,” I have presented to students an argument structure I adapt from screenwriting. This has helped me to give new meaning, in more vernacular terms, to the problem (in other words, conflict) that academic writing requires and that student writers tend to neglect.
Academic purpose emerges in raising a problem with existing or conventional or received or controversial views of things. Students tend to have problems with our interest in problematizing. Why does everything have to be complicated? Why does everything have to be a problem? Why can’t Thoreau’s writing just be interesting or enjoyable on its own–why does everything have to be a problem? Thoreau, I think, has his answers. I have come to answer students in two ways. First, that as academics we value complicated, not simplistic, thinking. So, get used to it; the good thinking that makes for good argument needs to be complicated. But complicated doesn’t necessarily mean difficult or hard to understand or unclear. This leads to my second response: complicated means that there is a problem with how something has been or is being viewed or understood, and you want to argue that there is another way to view it, an alternative understanding. A problem helps set-up the context for the focus and the purpose for the writer’s argument. A good example of how this necessary complication need not be necessarily difficult can be found in the following, from the opening paragraphs of Seeing New Worlds: Henry David Thoreau and Nineteenth-Century Natural Science (Wisconsin, 1995) by Laura Dassow Walls. Walls deals with complicated ideas, as most book-length academic arguments do. But the argument that explores those complicated ideas is built on a central and clearly stated problem: she offers an alternative to the longstanding problem in Thoreau criticism, discounting his later work as distracted, misled, insiginficant. Walls sets up her argument using that very language of “problem,” and does so clearly and simply in the opening 2 pages of the book.
Thoreau devoted the last ten years of his short life to studies that have puzzled generations of his commentators. What was the ‘transcendental’ author of Walden doing out in all weathers, counting tree rings, listing plant species, measuring stream depths? These are not, on the face of it, very transcendental activities. It is difficult to imagine Emerson, for instance, scouting woodlots in the autumn rain, entering tree ring counts into a field notebook. And it is easy to imagine these activities as fatal distractions from the great task of writing the successor to Walden, and thus to marginalize them, in our disappointment, as the product of a declining and tragically misled talent.
Yet there are at least two overriding reasons for attending carefully to these studies. The first is Thoreau’s sheer joy in physical engagement with the woods, fields, and waters of Concord, evident still on every page of the late Journal…. Second, Thoreau himself felt he was on, not a retreat, but a real and affirmative quest, which was intrinsic to the totality of his career, the attempt to read and tell a history of man and nature together, as in one single, interconnected act.
The effort to read nature ‘whole’ was shared by many of Thoreau’s [Romantic] contemporaries…. Central to this book is the assertion that there is, in addition to the one narrative usually told about romanticism, a second competing narrative…. The second, ‘empirical holism,’ was an emergent alternative which stressed that the whole could be understood only by studying the interconnections of its constituent and individual parts…. Recovering this alternative tradition enables a new understanding of the problematical studies which fill the later years of Thoreau’s Journal, which are also the years of his greatest literary productivity.
This, then, is the basic structure for any argument–and for setting it up in an essay’s introduction.
Given. Longstanding puzzlement/confusion regarding Thoreau’s work in last ten years of his life, leading to continued neglect of that work.
Problem/Disturbance. The ‘yet’ of the second paragraph: two ‘overriding reasons’ not to discount this later work.
Thesis (or response/solution to the problem) The ‘alternative’ proposed by the scholar: the central assertion of book–a new understanding of later work of Thoreau can be had by understanding Thoreau’s place in an alternative tradition within romantic literature named ‘empirical holism.’
This basic structure emphasizes not only that arguments are comprised of tensions and relations between conflicts/problems and possible solutions, or alternative ways of viewing things, but also that they are therefore dynamic, changing, moving. This is what makes an argument rhetorical. Is it too much to say, with Thoreau in mind, that this dynamism would also make a good argument (like the project for an entire book, say, Walden) ecological?
The rhetorical tradition of counterargument provides a related way to think about, to clarify, and to complicate the problem that is needed for an argument. Think of places where Thoreau pursues a counterargument–where he turns away from his argument, seeming to take up the very contradiction of his argument, only then (or later) to show how this more complex relation of ideas actually develops his argument. You can also think of the ways, as I suggested, Schulz in “Pond Scum” offers in her counterargument (her admission that Thoreau’s involvement with anti-slavery efforts is indeed substantial and not anti-social) what I read as a stronger claim than her own argument. That’s a good use of counterargument: to see if your argument is not as strong or persuasive as the view you are countering. If that is the case, you want to figure that out while still revising, not after you publish. For some basic, helpful guidelines on counterargument, I recommend this resource.
For those interested in further reading on the concept of the anthropocene (discussed in Purdy’s essay on Walden), I recommend this post by Rob Nixon, “The Anthropocene: Promise and Pitfalls of an Epochal Idea.” Nixon is the author of Slow Violence and the Environmentalism of the Poor–we will be reading from that text later in the semester.
I want to highlight the argument from Lawrence Buell’s essay “Thoreau and the Natural Environment,” and in doing so, focus our attention on the writing and revision we will be doing for the first writing project. I have been making the point in our recent discussions of Walden that (as I read it) the environmental perspective within Thoreau’s text emerges with the writing; that at some basic level (closer to the bottom of the pond; at least a bit beneath the muck and slosh of opinion) Thoreau’s environmental or ecocritical agenda is writerly; that to in order to improve our environmental perspective we need to improve the way we read and write–we need to be more deliberate in our reading of how books are written. We need, in other words, to read Thoreau the writer and grasp the nature of his writing: and so irony and metonymy–I have been suggesting–are also relevant for ecological thinking.
We can add to this now Buell’s argument that the acclaimed environmental vision of Walden (and all that we now associate with Thoreau as environmental saint) is more complicated than we might think. Among the complications, Thoreau’s vision does not begin where it ends; it is revised into Walden. That Thoreau’s vision is a matter of revision. Buell suggests there are various environmental projects we might read at any given point in Walden (or in the course of Thoreau’s evolving writing life). By my accounting:
- pastoralism: think of the train in “Sounds”
- Emersonian/Romantic correspondence between nature and spirit (this one is excerpted out of the essay you read, but included in Buell’s book, The Environmental Imagination): think of the opening paragraph of “Sounds” or the sand foliage passage in “Spring”
- frugality/asceticism: small-scale, sustainable agriculture–throughout “Economy,” the focus on purity in “Higher Laws”
- natural history: Thoreau as field biologist, as early ecologist, as phenologist–observing the pond in Winter, observing Spring come in.
- landscape aesthetics: Thoreau as Cole or Ruskin.
- poetic: losing reader in his text; Thoreau the deliberate writer who means in every word he writes (Cavell)–the language focus within the sand foliage passage or all of “Reading.”
- political: anticipating his famous “Civil Disobedience” argument–“Economy,” his resistance to philanthropy.
Buell argues that overall Thoreau moves from a more homocentric (or anthropocentric) to a more ecocentric vision of nature in the course of his adult life; and Walden’s revisions reflect this change: thus the later sections of the book which are revised last are more ecocentric. But the notion of environmental projects (plural) reminds us that the vision is often competing and conflicting. Buell writes:
The growing empiricism of his natural history project, for instance, was partially at odds with his pastoral and correspondence projects but was both fueled and regulate by these more long-standing and more poetic interests. And second, the patchwork of convergent and dissonant motives just described, interacting with another dimension of his thought. . . produced both a certain astigmatism and a wondrous acuity of environmental vision: segmentation, disproportion, blurring of focus. One of Walden’s more frustrating charms is that it so easily loses the reader in the landscape of the text. 
Thus, Thoreau is not just refining his environmental vision through the craft of revision; he is also un-refining it–making it more (in his terms) extra/vagant. I associate this with the kind irony we have been considering in our reading–Thoreau wanting to speak somewhere without bounds, and worrying the fact that he is writing for bound books. And this suggests to me that environmental vision is for Thoreau an activity of ongoing revision.
As I noted in a recent post, I worked in recent years on a research/essay project that was inspired by teaching this course; the project re-examines Thoreau’s relationship with Emerson in terms of their complex interests writing about nature and, as I argue, their shared interest in the rhetorical figure of metonymy. The project was inspired by my desire to pursue a deliberate reading of Thoreau’s wild “sand foliage” passage (hallucination?) in “Spring” and to think through the implications of what I have been calling ecological irony and organic reading. Just to let you see that I, too, am engaged in deliberate reading (trying to live up to Thoreau’s challenge), I have provided an excerpt of my reading of the passage below. [from “Ecology and Imagination: Emerson, Thoreau, and the Nature of Metonymy,” published in Criticism (Spring 2013)].
Metonymy names for Emerson a dynamic lesson in nature’s metamorphosis, a naturalizing of mind recorded by science but also demonstrated aptly in the tropes of the writer. So far as I know, Thoreau does not refer to the name “metonymy” in his writing, unlike the specific reference to metaphor he makes in the opening of the “Sounds” chapter in Walden, where he suggests that, “we are in danger of forgetting the language which all things and events speak without metaphor.”[i] But even that very line, which for Rochelle Johnson marks Thoreau’s ”passion for nature beyond metaphor,” speaks to a melding of the material and the imaginative, of nature and language—the amalgam of a language in things. It could be argued, of course, that the line itself, in the very figuring of “things and events speak[ing] without metaphor,” trades in the kind of tropology it desires to move away from. I would argue, rather, that Thoreau’s “without metaphor” is not a contradictory case of using a figure to argue for a writing that would be natural and without figure; nor is it a case where the “early” Thoreau is guilty of metaphor, a remnant of Emersonian transcendentalism and its overwhelming influence contaminating what should be (for some critics) the ecological purity of Walden and the author’s attention to the literal world. Metonymy, as I have suggested, is without metaphor, but not without figure. With this and other references to the language of things, Thoreau has in mind, rather, metonymy’s mediation of the literal in the figural. Metonymy speaks to the literal instead of the metaphorical senses of words, but the literal sense, of course, is still a matter of words. I agree with David Robinson’s assessment in Natural Life, that Thoreau’s empirical version of transcendentalism emerges not just in the later journals and unpublished natural history projects, but is evident earlier in Thoreau’s development of an “organic” practice of reading. For Robinson, Thoreau’s material engagement with nature proceeds not despite his attention to language and figure, but through the means of language, in various “interpretive encounters” that signal a movement between the written word and the natural world.[ii]
“There is nothing inorganic,” Thoreau claims of his words and the natural world he observes re-emerging in the phenomena of Walden’s “Spring.” In this penultimate chapter, Thoreau describes the “hybrid product” of “sand foliage” he observes in the thawing of an exposed sandbank, moving remarkably between the excremental and the ecstatic on the way to declaring “this one hillside illustrated the principle of all the operations of Nature”:
As it flows it takes the forms of sappy leaves or vines, making heaps of pulpy sprays a foot or more in depth, and resembling, as you look down on them, the laciniated lobed and imbricated thalluses of some lichens; or you are reminded of coral, of leopards’ paws or birds’ feet, of brains or lungs or bowels, and excrements of all kinds. It is a truly grotesque vegetation….I feel as if I were nearer to the vitals of the globe, for this sandy overflow is something such a foliaceous mass as the vitals of the animal body. You find thus in the very sands an anticipation of the vegetable leaf. No wonder that the earth expresses itself outwardly in leaves, it so labors with the idea inwardly. The atoms have already learned this law, and are pregnant by it. The overhanging leaf sees here its prototype…. The very globe continually transcends and translates itself, and becomes winged in its orbit.[iii]
This well-known passage is a tour de force in the analogical imagination that links Thoreau with Romantic science. Thoreau’s extensive analogy of the leaf as “prototype” recalls Goethe, clearly one source for his thinking; the ecstatic witness to transcendence might also bring to mind Emerson’s “transparent eyeball” from Nature, even with Thoreau’s more material focus.[iv] For readers concerned with the legacy of Emersonian metaphor in nature writing, however, this symbolic analogizing of nature’s poetry (“living poetry like the leaves of a tree”) indicates Thoreau’s continued struggle through the 1840s with Emersonian transcendentalism. Such readers do not take comfort in Leo Marx’s influential reading of the melting sand as “poetic figure,” as “a product of imaginative perception, of the analogy-perceiving, metaphor-making, mythopoeic power of the human mind.” Rochelle Johnson includes Marx amongst a list of myth and symbol scholars who, she asserts, “perpetuate a tradition of inattention to the material world.”[v]
My own reading falls somewhere between Marx’s metaphor and Johnson’s materiality. The poetics of the “sand foliage,” it seems to me, remains a case where Thoreau’s metonymic imagination has been misread due to the misunderstanding of a similar metonymy, so-called but critically neglected, in Emerson’s empirical idealism. Thoreau translates Emerson to some extent in the passage, but this translation need not be a problem for ecocriticism. Emerson, as we have seen, reads Goethe’s metamorphosis, with the leaf as prototype, as a lesson in the metonymic relation between a self-registering nature and its reporting in writing. Thoreau is translating from a shared understanding of metonymic, not metaphorical, analogy or association. The passage moves from resemblance (the “spray” of thawing sand “resembling” the “forms of sappy leaves or vines”) to remembrance (“reminded of coral, of leopards’ paws”) to relation, wherein the inward law of atoms links to the outward leaves of the earth. Like Emerson in the lecture on “Goethe” or in the lectures invoking Faraday in the materializing of mind, Thoreau observes in the thawing clay the registration of processes that relate mud to man. But there is also prominent in this observation of the spring thaw Thoreau’s considerable interest in literal rather than metaphorical translation, a radical empiricism that extends to the very language (of “globe” and “leaf”) he uses to describe the phenomena he observes. Thoreau’s passage condenses the observer’s mind with the observation:
Internally, whether in the globe or animal body, it [“leaf”] is a moist thick lobe, a word especially applicable to the liver and lungs and the leaves of fat…. In globe, glb, the guttural g adds to the meaning the capacity of the throat. The feathers and wings of birds are still drier and thinner leaves. Thus, also, you pass from the lumpish grub in the earth to the airy and fluttering butterfly. The very globe continually transcends and translates itself, and becomes winged in its orbit.
So the figural compresses the literal. If Emerson locates in the natural philosophy of Goethe and Faraday an analogy to give language to mind and to embody its organic destiny, Thoreau locates in language and its interior processes an analogy toward the perception and expression of the operations of nature. Both writers speak to a dynamic relation of the material and the imaginative that goes beyond metaphor by going through metonymy and its associative analogies of contexture. Man is not planetary—but neither is the globe itself. “This is the frost coming out of the ground; this is Spring”: the various associations and signs of spring include the language of the passage and the very title of the chapter within the book—this (page) also is “Spring.”[vi]
I take seriously the writer’s understanding that his very language—the figure of “sand foliage,” the leaves of his book, the author’s own name—is itself organic and material, like the globe. Thoreau, we know, desires an expression that is adequate to the extravagance of the earth’s expression. I read the passage as a vivid demonstration of Thoreau’s more empirical, because more metonymic, understanding of language. To view Thoreau’s linguistic reflections in the passage as empirical, we need to give more thought and context to the etymological science Thoreau reads and translates into the passage. Michael West does just that in Transcendental Wordplay, locating the most direct source for Thoreau and his linguistic leavings in the Hungarian linguist Charles Kraitsir and his 1852 text Glossology: Being a Treatise on the Nature of Language and on the Language of Nature. West indicates that Thoreau transcribed parts of Kraitsir’s treatise from Emerson’s own copy in the early 1850s. Though Kraitsir’s etymological theories are often “elliptical contortions,” West demonstrates in Kraitsir and other linguists Thoreau knew, including Richard Trench and Walter Whiter, a “linguistic organicism” derived from Wilhelm von Humboldt and Romantic science that inspired Thoreau to “conceive of words biologically” and understand language as a living organism.[vii]
[i] Thoreau, Walden, 111.
[ii] Johnson, Passions for Nature, 183; Robinson, Natural Life, 102, 109.
[iii] Thoreau, Walden, 305-307.
[iv] Laura Walls, for example, suggests Thoreau’s “ecstatic vision” in the passage is “a Thoreauvian answer to Emerson’s transparent eyeball” with “one small note of sharp-eyed difference,” the implications of self-organization, Walls, Seeing New Worlds, 181.
[v] Leo Marx, The Machine in the Garden: Technology and the Pastoral Ideal in America (New York: Oxford University Press, 1964) 264; Johnson, Passions for Nature, 230.
[vi] Thoreau, Walden, 306-306, 308.
[vii] Michael West, Transcendental Wordplay: America’s Romantic Punsters and the Search for the Language of Nature (Athens, Ohio: Ohio University Press, 2000), 183, 197. James Perrin Warren also focuses on Kraitsir in arguing for Thoreau’s dynamic conception of language, “the dynamic, shifting character of figuration itself, where the figure, like the sand, ‘organizes itself,’ only to be metamorphosed into yet another figure,” Culture of Eloquence: Oratory and Reform in Antebellum America (University Park, PA: Penn State University Press, 1999), 68.