Humanities › English Henry David Thoreau's Thoughts on Love Sentimental and Overblown but Ultimately Refreshing, Says Biographer Share Flipboard Email Print Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862). (Print Collector/Getty Images) English English Grammar An Introduction to Punctuation Writing By Richard Nordquist English and Rhetoric Professor Ph.D., Rhetoric and English, University of Georgia M.A., Modern English and American Literature, University of Leicester B.A., English, State University of New York Dr. Richard Nordquist is professor emeritus of rhetoric and English at Georgia Southern University and the author of several university-level grammar and composition textbooks. our editorial process Richard Nordquist Updated September 27, 2017 Henry David Thoreau is thought of by many as America's supreme nature writer and is most famous "Walden," his book of observations and intermingled philosophy about the time he spent living on Walden Pond near Concord, Massachusetts. But he had thoughts to share about many other things, as this essay reveals. This work, originally titled "Love and Friendship," was culled from a letter Thoreau wrote to a friend in September 1852. It was first published in the collection "Letters to Various Persons" (1865), edited by Ralph Waldo Emerson, Thoreau's friend and mentor. Biographer Robert D. Richardson Jr. says that despite the essay's faults ("sentimental language, overblown idealizing, and choppy, unsure paragraphing"), "Love" is "refreshing in its desire to avoid sentimental cant." 'Love' What the essential difference between man and woman is, that they should be thus attracted to one another, no one has satisfactorily answered. Perhaps we must acknowledge the justness of the distinction which assigns to man the sphere of wisdom and to woman that of love, though neither belongs exclusively to either. Man is continually saying to woman, Why will you not be more wise? Woman is continually saying to man, Why will you not be more loving? It is not in their wills to be wise or to be loving; but, unless each is both wise and loving, there can be neither wisdom nor love. All transcendent goodness is one, though appreciated in different ways, or by different senses. In beauty we see it, in music we hear it, in fragrance, we scent it, in the palatable the pure palate tastes it, and in rare health, the whole body feels it. The variety is in the surface or manifestation, but the radical identity we fail to express. The lover sees in the glance of his beloved the same beauty that in the sunset paints the western skies. It is the same daimon, here lurking under a human eyelid, and there under the closing eyelids of the day. Here, in small compass, is the ancient and natural beauty of evening and morning. What loving astronomer has ever fathomed the ethereal depths of the eye? The maiden conceals a fairer flower and sweeter fruit than any calyx in the field; and, if she goes with averted face, confiding in her purity and high resolves, she will make the heavens retrospective, and all nature humbly confess its queen. Under the influence of this sentiment, man is a string of an Aeolian harp, which vibrates with the zephyrs of the eternal morning. There is at first thought something trivial in the commonness of love. So many Indian youths and maidens along these banks have in ages past yielded to the influence of this great civilizer. Nevertheless, this generation is not disgusted nor discouraged, for love is no individual's experience; and though we are imperfect mediums, it does not partake of our imperfection; though we are finite, it is infinite and eternal; and the same divine influence broods over these banks, whatever race may inhabit them, and perchance still would, even if the human race did not dwell here. Perhaps an instinct survives through the intensest actual love, which prevents entire abandonment and devotion, and makes the most ardent lover a little reserved. It is the anticipation of change. For the most ardent lover is not the less practically wise, and seeks a love which will last forever. Considering how few poetical friendships there are, it is remarkable that so many are married. It would seem as if men yielded too easy an obedience to nature without consulting their genius. One may be drunk with love without being any nearer to finding his mate. There is more of good nature than of good sense at the bottom of most marriages. But the good nature must have the counsel of the good spirit or Intelligence. If common sense had been consulted, how many marriages would never have taken place; if uncommon or divine sense, how few marriages such as we witness would ever have taken place! Our love may be ascending or descending. What is its character, if it may be said of it -- "We must respect the souls above,But only those below we love." Love is a severe critic. Hate can pardon more than love. They who aspire to love worthily, subject themselves to an ordeal more rigid than any other. Is your friend such a one that an increase of worth on your part will surely make her more your friend? Is she retained -- is she attracted by more nobleness in you -- by more of that virtue which is peculiarly yours, or is she indifferent and blind to that? Is she to be flattered and won by your meeting her on any other than the ascending path? Then duty requires that you separate from her. Love must be as much a light as a flame. Where there is not discernment, the behavior even of the purest soul may in effect amount to coarseness. A man of fine perceptions is more truly feminine than a merely sentimental woman. The heart is blind, but Love is not blind. None of the gods is so discriminating. In Love & Friendship the imagination is as much exercised as the heart; and if either is outraged the other will be estranged. It is commonly the imagination which is wounded first, rather than the heart, it is so much the more sensitive. Comparatively, we can excuse any offense against the heart, but not against the imagination. The imagination knows -- nothing escapes its glance from out its eyry -- and it controls the breast. My heart may still yearn toward the valley, but my imagination will not permit me to jump off the precipice that debars me from it, for it is wounded, its wings are dipt, and it cannot fly, even descendingly. Our "blundering hearts"! some poet says. The imagination never forgets; it is a remembering. It is not foundationless, but most reasonable, and it alone uses all the knowledge of the intellect. Love is the profoundest of secrets. Divulged, even to the beloved, it is no longer Love. As if it were merely I that loved you. When love ceases, then it is divulged. In our intercourse with one we love, we wish to have answered those questions at the end of which we do not raise our voice; against which we put no interrogation-mark--answered with the same unfailing, universal aim toward every point of the compass. I require that thou knowest everything without being told anything. I parted from my beloved because there was one thing which I had to tell her. She questioned me. She should have known all by sympathy. That I had to tell it her was the difference between us--the misunderstanding. A lover never hears anything that is told, for that is commonly either false or stale; but he hears things taking place, as the sentinels heard Trenck mining in the ground, and thought it was moles. The relation may be profaned in many ways. The parties may not regard it with equal sacredness. What if the lover should learn that his beloved dealt in incantations and philters! What if he should hear that she consulted a clairvoyant! The spell would be instantly broken. If to chaffer and higgle are bad in trade, they are much worse in Love. It demands directness as of an arrow. There is danger that we lose sight of what our friend is absolutely while considering what she is to us alone. The lover wants no partiality. He says, be so kind as to be just. Canst thou love with thy mind,And reason with thy heart?Canst thou be kind,And from thy darling part?Canst thou range earth, sea, and air,And so meet me everywhere?Through all events I will pursue thee,Through all persons I will woo thee. I need thy hate as much as thy love. Thou wilt not repel me entirely when thou repellest what is evil in me. Indeed, indeed, I cannot tell,Though I ponder on it well,Which were easier to state.All my love or all my hate.Surely, surely, thou wilt trust meWhen I say thou doth disgust me.O I hate thee with a hateThat would fain annihilate;Yet, sometimes, against my will,My dear Friend, I love thee still.It were treason to our love,And a sin to God above,One iota to abateOf a pure, impartial hate. It is not enough that we are truthful; we must cherish and carry out high purposes to be truthful about. It must be rare, indeed, that we meet with one to whom we are prepared to be quite ideally related, as she to us. We should have no reserve; we should give the whole of ourselves to that society; we should have no duty aside from that. One who could bear to be so wonderfully and beautifully exaggerated every day. I would take my friend out of her low self and set her higher, infinitely higher, and there know her. But, commonly, men are as much afraid of love as of hate. They have lower engagements. They have near ends to serve. They have not imagination enough to be thus employed about a human being but must be coopering a barrel, forsooth. What a difference, whether, in all your walks, you meet only strangers, or in one house is one who knows you, and whom you know. To have a brother or a sister! To have a gold mine on your farm! To find diamonds in the gravel heaps before your door! How rare these things are! To share the day with you--to people the earth. Whether to have a god or a goddess for companion in your walks or to walk alone with hinds and villains and carles. Would not a friend enhance the beauty of the landscape as much as a deer or hare? Everything would acknowledge and serve such a relation; the corn in the field, and the cranberries in the meadow. The flowers would bloom, and the birds sing, with a new impulse. There would be more fair days in the year. The object of love expands and grows before us to eternity until it includes all that is lovely, and we become all that can love.