The Thoreau and the Pity

Sometimes, having had a surfeit of human society and gossip, and worn out all my village friends, I rambled still farther westward than I habitually dwell, into yet more unfrequented parts of the town.

Oh, okay, whatever, that's not me describing my latest excursion to Zizkov -- that's Henry David Thoreau. But we have a lot in common, as I've just been thinking. We both lived by bodies of water -- he by Walden Pond, me by the Vltava.

He withdrew from society to live a simple, healthy, contemplative life.

I didn't get dressed until, like, NOON yesterday and on Tuesday, I didn't talk to anyone all day except on ICQ.

He lived in a house he'd built himself.

I live in a ground floor apartment, and when anything breaks I just call the landlords, who live on the third floor. There may be a parallel to be drawn here, but it escapes me just now.

I think this stretch of the Vltava is probably something like Thoreau's pond: people do fish in it, (although I don't think the fishermen of 1840's Massachusetts were catching carp), at the moment, the banks are covered in a light dusting of snow, and even in the relative cold now prevailing, the occasional rower glides by.

Give or take an arched bridge, a steady stream of traffic, the largest stadium in Central Europe, and the number 17 tram, the view from my window was probably something like the view from his door.

Or not.

Actually, I think this whole attempt to cast myself as a latterday Thoreau was really misguided. Tune in tomorrow when I'll have another bash at it.