Author: Archer Maduro

Olivia Gaj, Aiden McConnell, Mykayla McCarthy, & Archer Maduro

Our group chose to analyze chapter thirteen of Walden, “House-Warming”, by comparing Versions A and G of paragraph 5a. Version A was written in 1847, and Version G was written in 1854. The original plan was to analyze paragraphs 5-7, but it was suggested that we narrow our selection down because there was so much content to go through. We focused on 5a by itself because this paragraph went through significant revision in the seven years Thoreau was writing it. Not only is the final paragraph significantly longer than the original draft, but Version G expands heavily on metaphorically connecting Thoreau’s chimney bricks to past civilizations.

The most notable revisions of paragraph 5a are the change in length and the thematic focus. Version A contains three sentences and 128 words, whereas Version G has seven sentences and 230 words. In Version A, Thoreau focuses on the physical bricks and the preparation behind them: he describes cleaning the bricks and making new mortar while emphasizing the strength of the aged mortar and steel. It’s a well-written paragraph, but it does more “telling” than “showing”. Version G connects the physical bricks to the ancient civilizations of Babylon and Mesopotamia. Thoreau sees his chimney as a personal, modern take on Mesopotamian utilizing second-hand bricks from Babylon; the bricks he uses have a rich history already within them, and they’re continuing to serve their purpose years later.

Paragraph 5a, Version A

Paragraph 5a, Version G

The first sentence of 5a receives a short addition by 1854, “I studied masonry.” It acts as a stronger, more complete introductory sentence that gives the reader a little more context on why Thorau is focusing this paragraph on the physical process behind preparing the bricks and building his chimney. This also ties into “I learned more than is usual of the qualities of bricks” in the second sentence by providing more foundation for this line, so it doesn’t seem like it’s coming out of nowhere. There’s a similar context change in the second sentence of Version A, with the line “manufacture of art of making,” replacing “art of making” with “qualities of” in Version G. This change shows that Thoreau is looking at this project from a more knowledgeable perspective now that he understands more about masonry by building this chimney.

The line “my bricks were old ones” in the second sentence is changed in Version G to instead refer to the bricks as “being second-hand ones.” This is significant to Thoreau shifting this paragraph to focus on the bricks’ thematic connection to ancient civilization. Using “second-hand” as a more specific descriptor subtly tells the reader that these bricks were something else before they were part of Thoreau’s chimney. This distinction is important to Thoreau, and it’s important to him that the reader sees this distinction as well.

The first half of sentence two in Version A (ending at the semicolon) has heavy additions and becomes sentences three to five in Version G. This is where he picks up the comparison of his bricks to ancient civilizations, telling the reader that “many of the villages of Mesopotamia are said to be built of second-hand bricks of a very good quality, obtained from the ruins of Babylon.” Thoreau isn’t saying that his bricks are literally the same ones that built the former foundations of Babylon or Mesopotamia. Instead, he’s thinking about the thematic similarities between his use of second-hand materials and the Mesopotamians’ use of second-hand materials. In both scenarios, the bricks carry the past civilization’s/peoples’ existence and history in their material, and they carry this existence into the structure of whatever its new purpose is. From there, these bricks now hold the history of their past and current use, and if used again in another structure, they will continue to carry those histories with them.

The second half of sentence 2 from Version A to Version G has little change in comparison to the first half. “However that may be” is added as a transitional phrase at the beginning of what becomes sentence seven of Version G. It shifts the focus away from the comparisons to Babylonian mortar and returns to describing his modern-day materials.

“As my bricks had been in a chimney before, though I did not read the name of Nebuchadnezzar [king of Babylon] on them” is added to the start of sentence three of Version A (which is now sentence seven of Version G). This brings the reader back to the link between Thoreau and ancient Mesopotamia. He is once again saying that his bricks haven’t literally come from Babylon, but thematically continues the same train of thought he used earlier when describing the “second-hand” Mesopotamian bricks in the second sentence.

The line “instead of the usual rubbish” in sentence three of Version A is removed in sentence seven of Version G. Our group debated Thoreau’s reasons for removing this line so late in the revision process when it was included in every draft up to Version G. It’s possible that Thoreau felt it no longer necessary to describe the bricks and stones he used as “rubbish”. Perhaps he felt more respect for his materials after reflecting on their history and his previously mentioned thematic connections to Mesopotamia and Babylon. He also could’ve decided it was unnecessary now that he had greater knowledge and experience with masonry. Thoreau also may have simply decided that this line no longer suited the tone of the paragraph. Another group member suggested that this was Thorau’s way of cutting the sentence short and cutting himself off from going on another metaphorical tangent.

During a morning walk around her neighborhood, my partner and I find ourselves roaming a nature trail. The easiest path down there is to follow the cul-de-sac driveway. If you stick to the edge of the loop, eventually the pavement stops at a half-hill/half-stepping-stone slope that bleeds into a path of dirt and woodchips.

We turn left at the fork in the path and come to a bridge crossing over a stream. Crumbling concrete pillars jut out of the water on either side of the bridge, from where another stood before it. She says the eroding mound of mud and twigs just below the wooden planks used to be larger. Her sisters often leapt from the railing onto the little island when they were young, skipping from muddy stone to muddy stone to reach a tiny island in the middle of the rushing current. Tangled in the weeds of the former isle is an empty bottle of Fireball.

A sleek, waterlogged mat of hair glides through the water beneath us. My partner and I debate back and forth what this creature could be. We consider the possibility of a rat when its thick, scaly tail waves through the water behind it. Our camera’s view is obscured by drooping branches when the creature crawls ashore. From this spot on the bridge, I see a flash of brown and black scurry through the brush for just a moment before it vanishes. We watch the clip three times over as we walk, and her father later confirms it: a muskrat.

Dandelions occasionally dot the trail. They’re tiny, not big enough to spill pollen when plucked; somewhere in between peeking their neon petals out and shedding them for florets. We smear the buds along our arms like we used to as children, laughing at the bright lemons and honeys that stain our skin.

At the bottom of a soggy slope, we find a respite beside a more lively edge of the river. A tree stretches its branches nearly halfway across the water, and holding tight to a thicker limb is a wooden swing. The rotting plank is knotted in place by two fat, fraying ropes and looks as though it would collapse should a child in the summertime become a bit too daring. If you tuck your foot under just the right tree root and stretch a loose branch as far as you can reach, the tip can brush against the fraying rope. If you stretch the tiniest bit further, you can successfully hook the rope and bring the swing into arm’s reach.

Amidst the cattails and scummy water, the bones of the bones of a rotting hut appear when we turn back and cross the bridge again. Her finger in the air traces the caving roof and the blackhole of what could have once been a window pane. Maybe it was a hermit’s den or a children’s hideout ravaged by storms and sunstroke. If the marsh had a stronger carpeting, I might have suggested wading out to the bones.

That was the line that stuck out to me the first time I read our class syllabus. “We’ll write code. Absolutely zero previous coding knowledge or experience is necessary.” For a few minutes, I thought I had made a huge mistake signing up for this course. I’m a creative writing student; my thing is words, not computers and code. “Literature and Literary Study in the Digital Age” sounded to me like just exploring the impact of digital archives and modern technology (like social media) on the literary world. I was only anticipating analyzing these sources, not downloading unfamiliar coding software and learning the different commands and file extensions. The first week of class was beyond intimidating and I debating dropping the course several times, but I’m honestly happy to still be here!

I’ve definitely become more comfortable playing around with basic code. During the first few weeks of class, I kept meticulous notes on every single command brought up in lectures and referred back to them every time I inputted anything into my command line. I was terrified of hitting the wrong key and somehow deleting half the files on my computer. Now it almost feels like second nature to jump right into GitBash every class and start setting up and navigating my journal files. It feels a little silly to be so proud of myself for only knowing a few commands or file extensions by memory, but considering I came into this class with zero coding knowledge, I’m allowing myself to celebrate tiny steps.

It’s also a pleasant surprise to see how quickly I’ve gotten comfortable working with HTML. I was working with WordPress and HTML last semester as part of an English project and I was very nervous because this was so far out of my comfort zone. I recall copy-pasting every use of the paragraph and body elements each time I needed to use them instead of actually typing them out because I didn’t trust myself to input them correctly, even if I thought I knew exactly what I was doing. Had I done that project now with the HTML knowledge I have from this class, I would have felt more confident in physically typing the elements out and likely less inclined to rely on copy-paste.

This class has given me significantly more respect for those who understand and work with computer code on a daily basis. I always knew that code was intricate and demanded immense attention to detail, but seeing firsthand just how much truly goes into making sure a code runs as intended leaves me with even more appreciation for those who work with it all the time. I’ve also realized that I like working with code more than I anticipated. While it’s a little frustrating at times to figure out what’s incorrect about my command inputs, it’s exciting when my code works the way it should, especially when experimenting with HTML.