Walking
Henry David Thoreau
A Modern English Rendering
First published 1862 · Lucid Classics edition 2026 · 48 pages
Original and Lucid edition, side by side
Original text
I wish to speak a word for Nature, for absolute Freedom and Wildness, as contrasted with a freedom and culture merely civil,—to regard man as an inhabitant, or a part and parcel of Nature, rather than a member of society. I wish to make an extreme statement, if so I may make an emphatic one, for there are enough champions of civilization: the minister and the school committee and every one of you will take care of that.
I have met with but one or two persons in the course of my life who understood the art of Walking, that is, of taking walks—who had a genius, so to speak, for sauntering, which word is beautifully derived "from idle people who roved about the country, in the Middle Ages, and asked charity, under pretense of going à la Sainte Terre," to the Holy Land, till the children exclaimed, "There goes a Sainte-Terrer," a Saunterer, a Holy-Lander. They who never go to the Holy Land in their walks, as they pretend, are indeed mere idlers and vagabonds; but they who do go there are saunterers in the good sense, such as I mean.
Lucid Classics
This is an argument for nature — for absolute freedom and wildness, not the tame, civilized versions we settle for. I want to think of a human being as part of nature, not as a member of society. I'm going to overstate the case on purpose. Subtlety wouldn't land, and anyway, civilization has defenders enough: the minister, the school board, every one of you reading this will take care of that side.
In my whole life I've met maybe one or two people who understood the art of walking. I mean a genius for sauntering, which has a beautiful etymology. It supposedly comes from the idle people who roamed the countryside in the Middle Ages, begging for charity under the pretense that they were headed à la Sainte Terre Children would shout, “There goes a Sainte-Terrer”—a saunterer, a Holy-Lander. People who never actually go to the Holy Land on their walks, as they claim to, are just loafers and vagabonds. Those who do go are saunterers in the good sense. That's what I mean.
Original text
My spirits infallibly rise in proportion to the outward dreariness. Give me the ocean, the desert, or the wilderness! In the desert, pure air and solitude compensate for want of moisture and fertility. The traveler Burton says of it—“Your morale improves; you become frank and cordial, hospitable and single-minded.... In the desert, spirituous liquors excite only disgust. There is a keen enjoyment in a mere animal existence.” They who have been traveling long on the steppes of Tartary say, “On reentering cultivated lands, the agitation, perplexity, and turmoil of civilization oppressed and suffocated us; the air seemed to fail us, and we felt every moment as if about to die of asphyxia.” When I would recreate myself, I seek the darkest wood, the thickest and most interminable and, to the citizen, most dismal, swamp. I enter a swamp as a sacred place,—a sanctum sanctorum. There is the strength, the marrow, of Nature.
Lucid Classics
My spirits rise in direct proportion to the outward dreariness. Give me the ocean, the desert, or the wilderness. In the desert, pure air and solitude compensate for the lack of moisture and fertility. The traveler Burton says of it: “Your morale improves; you become frank and cordial, hospitable and single-minded... In the desert, spirituous liquors excite only disgust. There is a keen enjoyment in a mere animal existence.” Travelers long on the steppes of Tartary say, “On re-entering cultivated lands, the agitation, perplexity, and turmoil of civilization oppressed and suffocated us; the air seemed to fail us, and we felt every moment as if about to die of asphyxia.” When I want to restore myself, I seek the darkest wood, the thickest and most interminable and, to the citizen, most dismal swamp. I enter a swamp as a sacred place — a sanctum sanctorum. There's the strength, the marrow, of nature.