producing anything. It is true, nobody intrudes into my room; but still
I cannot be quiet. Nothing here is settled; everything is but beginning
to arrange itself, and though I would seem to have little to do with
aught beside my own thoughts, still I cannot but partake of the ferment
around me. My mind will not be abstracted. I must observe, and think,
and feel, and content myself with catching glimpses of things which may
be wrought out hereafter. Perhaps it will be quite as well that I find
myself unable to set seriously about literary occupation for the present.
It will be good to have a longer interval between my labor of the body
and that of the mind. I shall work to the better purpose after the
beginning of November. Meantime I shall see these people and their
enterprise under a new point of view, and perhaps be able to determine
whether we have any call to cast in our lot among them.

* * * * * *

I do wish the weather would put off this sulky mood. Had it not been for
the warmth and brightness of Monday, when I arrived here, I should have
supposed that all sunshine had left Brook Farm forever. I have no
disposition to take long walks in such a state of the sky; nor have I any
buoyancy of spirit. I am a very dull person just at this time.


September 25th.--. . . . One thing is certain. I cannot and will not
spend the winter here. The time would be absolutely thrown away so far
as regards any literary labor to be performed. . . . .

The intrusion of an outward necessity into labors of the imagination and
intellect is, to me, very painful. . . . .