Read Online A Philosophy of Walking by Frédéric Gros - Free Book Online
Authors: Frédéric Gros
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gentle shock-free rolling of happy legs drives the evolving narrative forward: challenges arise, their solutions are found, fresh ambushes appear. As you follow the wide, single, clearly marked route, a thousand bifurcations swarm in your mind. The heart takes one and renounces another, then chooses a third. It wanders away, comes back.
I was young, and in good health; I had sufficient money and abundant hopes; I travelled on foot and I travelled alone. That I should consider this an advantage would appear surprising, if the reader were not by this time familiar with my disposition. My pleasing chimeras kept me company, and never did my heated imagination give birth to any that were more magnificent. When anyone offered me an empty seat in a carriage, or accosted me on the road, I made a wry face when I saw that fortune overthrown, the edifice of which I reared during my walk.
When you are that age, when you can’t say that you have loved, because love is still a future flowering that you yearn for with your entire being, there is lightness in your step, eagerness for the great love at the end of the road. Then Rousseau crossed the Alps. The prospects that opened over hillcrests, the sublime views of the peaks, seemed toendorse the maddest ambitions. What would he find at the next lodging? Who would be dining there? Everything could, everything
should
offer the opportunity for extraordinary encounters: stout-hearted companions, mysterious women, louche characters, formidable schemers. Every time you approach a hamlet, a farm, a great house, anything could happen. And when evening comes, and it’s time to eat, even if the hostess is less beautiful than you might have hoped, and the innkeeper less forthcoming, you hardly notice: the body is content to fill those immense hollows gouged in the belly by the wind. Afterwards, you fall asleep in seconds to visit other dreams. That first walk is infinitely sweet … at sixteen or even twenty you carry no burden but your cheerful hopes. No memories weigh down your shoulders. All is still possible, all is yet to be experienced. Desires are forming within you, delighted with all possibilities. It is the walk of happy daybreaks, the resplendent mornings of life.
I have never thought so much, existed so much, lived so much, been so much myself, if I may venture to use the phrase, as in the journeys which I have made alone and on foot … I dispose of Nature in its entirety as its lord and master; my heart, roaming from object to object, mingles and identifies itself with those which soothe it, wraps itself up in charming fancies, and is intoxicated with delicious sensations.
Rousseau was now past forty. He had already done a lot: embassy secretary in Venice, music teacher, encyclopaedist … He had made friends, enemies, a reputation; his name was often mentioned. He had schemed, written, invented,sought glory and recognition. Now he suddenly decided to stop frequenting society, to give up haunting learned and distinguished circles, to cease pursuing a success that he found slow in coming, and in whose very prospect he was already losing interest. He abandoned wigs and fine clothes, deserted the salons, resigned from all high-profile posts. Soon he was dressed like a poor man, and copying music sheets for a living. Because he wanted (as he kept saying) to rely only on himself. He was spoken of as a new Diogenes: Rousseau was the ‘doggish man’ of the Enlightenment.
But the break wasn’t a clean or abrupt one. At the same time the king discovered his music, took a fancy to it, and made the fact known. Also at the same moment, his
Discours sur les arts
was being read and talked about everywhere. And he was still intending to defend his views on French music.
Increasingly, nevertheless, he longed for one thing above all: to remain alone for a long time, to leave Paris, bury himself in the woods. He had already written that culture, letters and learning had helped make
I was young, and in good health; I had sufficient money and abundant hopes; I travelled on foot and I travelled alone. That I should consider this an advantage would appear surprising, if the reader were not by this time familiar with my disposition. My pleasing chimeras kept me company, and never did my heated imagination give birth to any that were more magnificent. When anyone offered me an empty seat in a carriage, or accosted me on the road, I made a wry face when I saw that fortune overthrown, the edifice of which I reared during my walk.
When you are that age, when you can’t say that you have loved, because love is still a future flowering that you yearn for with your entire being, there is lightness in your step, eagerness for the great love at the end of the road. Then Rousseau crossed the Alps. The prospects that opened over hillcrests, the sublime views of the peaks, seemed toendorse the maddest ambitions. What would he find at the next lodging? Who would be dining there? Everything could, everything
should
offer the opportunity for extraordinary encounters: stout-hearted companions, mysterious women, louche characters, formidable schemers. Every time you approach a hamlet, a farm, a great house, anything could happen. And when evening comes, and it’s time to eat, even if the hostess is less beautiful than you might have hoped, and the innkeeper less forthcoming, you hardly notice: the body is content to fill those immense hollows gouged in the belly by the wind. Afterwards, you fall asleep in seconds to visit other dreams. That first walk is infinitely sweet … at sixteen or even twenty you carry no burden but your cheerful hopes. No memories weigh down your shoulders. All is still possible, all is yet to be experienced. Desires are forming within you, delighted with all possibilities. It is the walk of happy daybreaks, the resplendent mornings of life.
I have never thought so much, existed so much, lived so much, been so much myself, if I may venture to use the phrase, as in the journeys which I have made alone and on foot … I dispose of Nature in its entirety as its lord and master; my heart, roaming from object to object, mingles and identifies itself with those which soothe it, wraps itself up in charming fancies, and is intoxicated with delicious sensations.
Rousseau was now past forty. He had already done a lot: embassy secretary in Venice, music teacher, encyclopaedist … He had made friends, enemies, a reputation; his name was often mentioned. He had schemed, written, invented,sought glory and recognition. Now he suddenly decided to stop frequenting society, to give up haunting learned and distinguished circles, to cease pursuing a success that he found slow in coming, and in whose very prospect he was already losing interest. He abandoned wigs and fine clothes, deserted the salons, resigned from all high-profile posts. Soon he was dressed like a poor man, and copying music sheets for a living. Because he wanted (as he kept saying) to rely only on himself. He was spoken of as a new Diogenes: Rousseau was the ‘doggish man’ of the Enlightenment.
But the break wasn’t a clean or abrupt one. At the same time the king discovered his music, took a fancy to it, and made the fact known. Also at the same moment, his
Discours sur les arts
was being read and talked about everywhere. And he was still intending to defend his views on French music.
Increasingly, nevertheless, he longed for one thing above all: to remain alone for a long time, to leave Paris, bury himself in the woods. He had already written that culture, letters and learning had helped make
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