"It convinces me that Earth is still in her swaddling-clothes, and stretches forth baby fingers on every side. Fresh curls spring from the baldest brow. There is nothing inorganic. These foliaceous heaps lie along the bank like the slag of a furnace, showing that Nature is "in full blast" within. The earth is not a mere fragment of dead history, stratum upon stratum like the leaves of a book, to be studied by geologists and antiquaries chiefly, but living poetry like the leaves of a tree, which precede flowers and fruit- not a fossil earth, but a living earth; compared with whose great central life all animal and vegetable life is merely parasitic. Its throes will heave our exuviae from their graves. You may melt your metals and cast them into the most beautiful moulds you can; they will never excite me like the forms which this molten earth flows out into. And not only it, but the institutions upon it are plastic like clay in the hands of the potter."PHOTOGRAPHER'S JOURNAL: The thaw was short-lived. The day after I took this, a great, warm rain washed the last of the ice and snow down the river, and then the weather turned colder, and soon it snowed. Winter is still in charge.
Monday, February 1, 2010
HENRY DAVID THOREAU (meditating on branching form melting sand and clay take by "a cut on the railroad"):