Time to Start a Book: Journal Entries from 1952

In 1952, Sigurd began to seriously think again about an idea he had conceived in the 1930s: to write a book of nature essays. Sigurd wouldn't actually begin solid work on the book until 1953, but these journal entries below are the earliest ones in which he discusses the project that eventually became his first book, The Singing Wilderness. To see these journal entries in larger context, read The Making of The Singing Wilderness.

July 6, 1952

Idea for the book

It suddenly came to me last night that what I might write is a description of the sort of enjoyment all of us get: the joy in the moonlight between the islands, the flickering of the northern lights, the smooth dip and flow of the canoe beating before the waves, the smell of cedar, the sharp sweet smell of Sweet Gale as it was bruised by the canoe, "a thousand million open pores spilling out the fragrance."

All of these things are part of the old idea of writing on outdoor enjoyment and interpretation—only now you are older—the stuff will not be cloying—this is real and important and maybe the contribution you have toyed with over the years.

The million joys we have—picking of cranberries in the bog, blueberries—trout fishing, sparkling snow, music at sunset, meals before the fire, sunrises and Thoreau and the look of rocks—gold finches, ducks against the sunset, the sound of bluebills, mallards quacking in the rice.

What you are trying to say is that if you can bring these things out in a book preferably you may have something. You have something different—no one in your acquaintance feels as you do—no one at all. If you can get this love and joy, this wonder and enthusiasm down on paper you will have it. Your job this summer is to try and write a chapter of the book. If you can get started then all problems will iron out.

The reason it looks good to me now is that the above thoughts are merely elaborations of the old theme, which makes it seem as though the old theme has merit.

You could call it—Keys to a Countryside—How to Enjoy the Out of Doors—Secrets of Enjoyment—Wilderness Fun ["The Search," he added in pen.]

What is the matter with fun—the many ways to enjoy the out of doors—clean campsites—vistas, berry picking, rocks and birds—hunting and fishing—the little cabin. The title "Wilderness Fun" can be elaborated a thousand ways. Write the introduction first and then go on with a hundred different chapters, telling why and how you and others have found the secret to enjoyment. What makes you different is exactly your capacity to enjoy. What has always made you different from your partners, exactly that. "Smell the morning" a ritual to start the day—bringing in all the smells that you know—balsam, bay—wet sand.

Sounds—bird songs, waves—wind through the trees—

WF can be happy and gay and give others a real sense of enjoyment—no preaching here but a joyous account of such things as last night the moonlight trip to the island. You can bring in the feelings of oneness, of peace, of accord and amity, of God, of universality. But in this it must be easily done, never forced. Perhaps another book. Wilder. Peace as you thought of long ago.

August 8, 1952

There is only one hope and that is to get at my writing again. These old signs of depression and loss of hope are familiar. They have happened many times in the past. As soon as I get at my writing, anything at all, it will pass just as it has before. Money troubles, investments, complications, QS [Quetico-Superior wilderness issues] do not seem important compared to the joy of again pounding something off.

That is your one anchor to windward as it has always been, that will make all worthwhile. Sure you have done nothing but talk about it, but the truth is there just the same. Regular periods of writing, regular output/ That is all that counts.

What will it be - as much of a puzzle as ever but there are glimmerings. Last night reading Time, under "Religion" a French priest says in America there is no close feeling for the land - in short no at homeness - no communion. He meant that in Europe where people have lived a long time, there is this feeling of oneness and understanding. Here we are still tourists.

It is much the same as I have been thinking about that what I must put across is the feeling of oness ala Thoreau. Sig's [Sigurd Jr.] feeling and mine for the canoe country. If I can bring into my writing this feeling of communion at homeness or whatever you want to call it then I have done something. As you indicated in Wilderness Peace, if you can bring in the feeling of oneness of all life, of oneness with the Universe, of total understanding and sympathy - if you can impregnate your writings with that major premise then you have something. If people reading it can catch that then it is enough - then everything you write will have a solid core of worthwhileness.

Your book Wilderness Fun - might conceivably work into that - Sounds, smells - colors - etc etc - back to the old idea of interpretation - plus the more mature feeling that you now have, the more mature understanding.

August 11, 1952

A short newspaper clipping, which Sigurd attached to the looseleaf page on which he typed his journal entry, is what prompted him to write. Below I have first put the text of the newspaper clipping, and then Sigurd's journal entry.

The Mystery
by Lee Hastings Bristol, Jr.

To see the world in a grain of sand,
And a heaven in a wild flower;
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,
And eternity in an hour.
—William Blake

With daily reports of international discord, scandal in government; with all the tense faces of people along the street; with the world picture always so black—what a "lift" we get from words like these! Here is a call to a sense of mystery. Here is a reminder that beyond our world of telephones, sleeping pills and Korean war news lies more, much more, for us to know.

"According to the laws of aerodynamics," declares Austin Pardue, "the experts maintain that the bumblebee cannot fly. His wingspread is too short for his fuselage. But the bumblebee does fly. He has not learned his aerodynamics."

When we say over morning coffee cups that we "know it all," when we kiddingly tell ourselves that we can put the whole world into a formula of two plus two equals four, perhaps thoughts of a bumblebee, a grain of sand, a flower, and the white radiance of eternity give us pause.

Was the poet not right, after all, to suggest that "...behind the dim unknown, standeth God within the shadow keeping watch above his own"?

[Sigurd highlighted the quote from William Blake, a quote he eventually typed up and posted in his writing shack. Then he wrote the following journal entry:]

To catch perhaps the joy that we all have in natural things in sunsets in the opening of a flower in running water, the wind in the pines, a thousand things. The joy that makes life thrilling and away from the prosaic. To capture that and bring it into your writings, eternity in a grain of sand, the story of rocks and swamps and trees—that is the sort of thing that if you can bring it into your writing will make it worth while for everyone.

Attached herewith a clipping which points up just this. Compared to the natural wonders all other things are unimportant.

Keep this in mind when you start as well as that sense of oneness and communion Father Breckberger of France talked about when he said Americans are not as yet wedded to their earth—they cannot as yet take their pleasure with her, cannot feel that sense of oneness that perhaps Sig [Sigurd and Elizabeth's oldest son] and I have for the out of doors.

America is footloose and unattached. We must try to capture that feeling of at onehomes ness [sic] to dispell the sensation that towns are refuges from the wild. We are part of it now. Until we capture that we are still a people without roots.

September 16, 1952

Whenever I feel low, whenever I get the feeling of not accomplishing anything, of being in a stalemate one thought is always encouraging - the old dream of someday getting at my writing. Anything just so that I am producing something. Guess what I must do now is get started on something at once, right today and see what the effect will be. It doesn't make much difference just so that words are going down and thoughts. You have neglected writing. You know the formula. Get at something and watch your enthusiasm and good nature return.

What - get to work on Wilderness Fun. Even that might develop into something worthwhile.

Get to work on Wilderness Peace and see what happens. Dig out some of your old stuff and revise it. Get to work on something. Have something maturing and developing all of the time. Work tonight, be sketching out ideas as you travel. Keep this spark alive and forget the many petty annoyances which seem to take the joy out of life.

You know the answers - why postpone the inevitable. The formula is so simple. But you are getting rusty, out of practice, out of touch.

October 11, 1952

Why not make use of the many things you have written. You have enough material for a book right now if it is organized and put in some sort of a sequence, have some sort of thread running through it. Through all of your stuff is the search for the primitive the joy in simple things the fight against convention. Bring through it all too your feeling of the simple, the love of God, communion with all things, make that the lifeline. Such a collection of essays might be all right if there is that line running through them, some coordinating influence through which you can pour all of your knowledge and all of your feelings.

Work up the Trappers Cabin idea for the first. Then follow with Why Wilderness.

I have just finished the Snowbank Cabin about 1000 words and have brought out the sense of naturalness, oneness with environment and animals, the harking back to the aeons of living in primitive shelters, the need for renewing old earth associations, or returning to the ancient awarenesses.

The next one will also be a trial - Perhaps The Search.

December 1, 1952

I have called this book "The Search" because that is exactly what it is, a lifetime spent in trying to find the answers to my particular type of longing, the longing for the wild, for naturalness, for cleanness, and beauty. The search has gone on for half a century, is still going on but I am beginning to find some of the answers. In short, in the words of Thoreau:

"I long ago lost a hound, a bay horse, and a turtle dove and am still on their trail. Many are the travellers I have spoken to concerning them, describing their tracks and what calls they answered to. I have met one or two who have heard the hound and the tramp of the horse, and even seen the dove disappear behind a cloud, and they seemed as anxious to recover them as if they had lost them themselves."

It is the same type of search that I have been going through most of my life, the same type that many people go through much of their lives. It is the recognition of these moments, these episodes, that make the search worthwhile. Now looking back over half a century these moments stand out. I find I have forgotten the times when I found nothing, that the highlights stand out. It is impossible to record them all but I shall attempt to set down in this volume the moments that really count.

What is the matter of this search. How recognize the gain when it does come. It is necessary to know what one is looking for in order to find it.

The first impressions of childhood are still vivid but are important only insofar as they have contributed to the goal. As a child there was of course no recognition but now with maturer insight, I look back and find that even then there was something of the search going on.

In the hope that others who have been aware of unrest and futility will find in the reading of the record of my search I have written this little book.

What am I going to find - peace - silence, beauty, the wild, cleanness, smells, sounds, but mostly the primitive, why because the primitive is the embodiment of what we as a race have lost. [Note: Olson always uses the word "race" in the sense of "human race."] It is this search for something lost that keeps us going, the finding of bits of it that makes the search worthwhile.

"Something lost behind the ranges, something lost and waiting for you." Kipling.

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