I was remembering today about my college Professor of Literature, Paul Wardzinski. Very few teachers or professors in my life have influenced my interest in the written word and even about history as did this man. He didn't just get up in front of the class and give some boring lecture and then assign volumes of independant reading. But he brought the lives of the authors and their craft alive for me.
One of history's greatest gifts to the world of literature in my opinion was Henry David Thoreau. You know, the guy who lived in the little house he built himself on Walden Pond. David lived there alone for two years, writing, studying both nature and the way people relate to the world and wrote one of his most famous of works, "On Waldon Pond"
Mr. Wardzinski brought Thoreau's life to "life" for me and started me on the road to voracious reading of such authors as Emily Dickenson, Sylvia Plath, Ralf Waldo Emerson and many others who left tremedous footprints that follow us here into our present and will continue into the future. People who seem to magically merge those three elements, Past, Present, and Future into the Now just by allowing us to lose ourselves in their written words.
Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote a tremendous eulogy for David and in it said about him: " He lived for the day, not cumbered and mortified by his memory."
You can find the entire eulogy at this link if you want to read it.
Emerson's eulogy
Louisa May Alcott may have been in love with David, although he never married, because she also wrote something for him after his death a poem titled "Thoreau's Flute."
We sighing said, "Our Pan is dead;
His pipe hangs mute beside the river;
Around it wistful sunbeams quiver,
But Music's airy voice is fled.
Spring came to us in guise forlorn;
The bluebird chants a requiem;
The willow-blossom waits for him;--
The GGenius of the wood is gone.
Then from the flute, untouched by hands,
There came a low, harmonious breath:
For such as he there is no death;--
His life the eternal life commands;
Above man's aims his nature rose.
The wisdom of a just content
Made one small spot a continent,
And turned to poetry life's prose.
Haunting the hills, the stream, the wild,
Swallow and aster, lake and pine,
To him grew human or divine,--
Fit mates for this large-hearted child.
Such homage Nature ne'er forgets,
And yearly on the coverlid
'Neath which her darling lieth hid
Will write his name in violets.
To him no vain regrets belong
Whose soul, that finer instrument,
Gave to the world no poor lament,
But wood-notes ever sweet and strong.
O lonely friend! he still will be
A potent presence, though unseen,--
Steadfast, sagacious, and serene;
Seek not for him--he is with thee.
I have no clue what ever happened to my dear Professor. We developed a lovely friendship during my time spent in his classroom and he heartily encouraged me to write and to express my thoughts and my life just as did those other authors we admired so much together. He spoke of his mother and how she influenced his love for literature and how his bedtime stories as a child included Edgar Alan Poe, to name just one of his favorites.
Maybe one day the Universe will bring Paul back into my life if only just to give me the opportunity to tell him thank you thank you for opening these doors for me. Thank you for not being the traditional type who stood in front of your students a stiff and aloof paragon, unreachable. But for being vibrant and involved and accessible. And thank you for being my teacher by example and my friend.