An account of a year spent living alone on a spit of land at the edge of Cape Cod in 1926. He hikes into town twice a week for eggs and butter, spends his days collecting driftwood and watching birds, chats with the coast guardsmen that patrol the beach at night. It’s a watered down attempt at what Thoreau perfected over the years he reworked Walden. Skip this and read that instead. Or Annie Dillard’s Pilgrim at Tinker Creek.
Best parts are descriptions of the cold sleety beach during the dark winter months, as he piles up wood wherever he can in the cabin to keep it dry. Also of scavenging from the many shipwrecks that happen right off the spit of land.
He instructs you to view birds sitting but be sure to clap your hands to send them into flight. “They will take no real alarm and will soon forgive you.” Hmm, ok. Expending precious energy for human’s amusement.
“The world today is sick to its thin blood for lack of elemental things, for fire before the hands, for water welling from the earth, for air, for the dear earth itself underfoot.”