Perhaps it is the relative ease, beauty, and quiet of the Berkshires—just the right remedy away from noisy New York and Boston…even Salem and Concord—that inspires writers. But certainly beginning in the 19th century through today Berkshire writers have had a consuming fascination with the mystery of place and how natural beauty and a closely hewn society are able to create the illusion of good in the presence of brooding evil. Elizabeth Brundage’s psychological thriller, Someone Else’s Daughter, is no different.
Review by Lucy Vivante, Lucas and Michael Miller. Owners Kenneth Kozak & Eliza Fitts 50 Main Street Wellfleet, Massachusetts 02667…
Lucas Miller’s notes on visual and geographical aspects of the kettle ponds of Wellfleet, Cape Cod.
As full of detail as his book is, Slayton never loses track of his purpose and his theme. He does indeed find Thoreau in the places, plants, and animals he studied. His kind of participation is not of Thoreau’s intense, totally absorbed kind, since he is basically a rationalist, but I think no one could argue with his basic tenet about Thoreau, that he was a seeker of the wild: “He was a good Romantic…but he was also a naturalist and came to understand that wildness did not have to be found only in wilderness…For him it was a pervasive quality—close to what the ancient Chinese called the Tao, the mysterious, all-encompassing force that winds the mainspring of the universe. He searched for it everywhere.” ( p. 3) Slayton constantly returns to this theme as he visits and revisits Thoreau’s haunts. whether in obvious places like the Maine woods or in heavily developed places like Cape Cod or Walden Pond. He puts it in the forefront of his conclusion, quoting Thoreau: “In Wildness is the Preservation of the World. Every tree sends its fibres forth in search of the Wild…I believe in the forest, and in the meadows, and in the night in which the corn grows.” Or as Walt Whitman said in a quotation that follows hard upon it: “I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars.” While some may see these statements, both confessions of belief, as pure Goethe, it is enough to ponder them in themselves.