I read Emerson’s journal last night and some Rumi poetry, both in progress books. My plan is off to a good start! If you’ve never read any of Rumi’s poetry before I highly recommend him. Good stuff!

But it’s Emerson’s journal I want to tell you about today. I am currently reading the thoughts of 18-year-old Emerson. He still addresses the faeries from time to time but for the most part, he has turned serious. Here is part of a long meditation on greatness I thought you might find interesting:

Never mistake yourself to be great, or designed for greatness, because you have been visited by an indistinct and shadowy hope that something is reserved for you beyond the common lot. It is easier to aspire than to do the deeds. The very idleness which leaves you leisure to dream of honour is the insurmountable obstacle between you and it. Those who are fitly furnished for the weary passage from mediocrity to greatness seldom find time or appetite to indulge that hungry and boisterous importunity for excitement which weaker intellects are prone to display.

Ouch! That’s harsh. But there is truth in it too.

Then there is his entry on fiction. He admits the beginnings of storytelling probably will never be found but suggests that if we really look at fiction, which he equated with fable, we would find that the source is “human misery.”

…that to relieve one hour of life, by exciting the sympathies to a tale even of imaginary joy, was accounted a praiseworthy accomplishment; and honour and gold were due to him, whose rare talent took away, for the moment, the memory of care and grief.

I see where he’s coming from but I can’t say that I agree with him. Yes, fiction is an escape from misery but it is more than that. I suspect stories were first created in an attempt not only to entertain but also to make sense of life–where do we come from, what are these other animals, why was there a big flood or earthquake or what have you. But since we can never know for certain, everybody can be right in their opinion. How often does that happen?

What amazes me is that Emerson is only 18. My journal from when I was 18 is filled with worries about school and friends and boys. No meditations on greatness or ponderings into the origins of fiction. Heck, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen 18 and my current journals aren’t exactly what I’d call erudite. Maybe I’m just a late bloomer. My genius will flower any minute now.

Yup, any minute.

Any minute.