The Hermit's Story by Rick Bass (best motivational books of all time txt) 📗

“Here, his telescope, through which he could keep up with the distant daily progress on the construction of one of his pet projects, the groundbreaking for the University of Virginia. An avid and learned astronomer, as well. Of course.”

Light comes in through the ancient curved windows through glass that Mr. Jefferson ordered from England—he sent out the dimensions, complete with trigonometric taper and calculated arc and radius; waited a year for the glass to be custom made and carried home across the swirling, tempestuous ocean. Imagine, please, his shuddering delight when that English glass finally made its way to him, when the carpenters lifted it carefully from the wagon, uncrated it intact, and held it gently, lovingly, up to the frames, fitting each piece into its waiting frame. It seems to be a tired but beautiful light, wavering green and gold, as if transmitting not just sunlight but also the botanical exuberance of the gardens outside—the dream, the vision, of Monticello.

On the tourists’ arms and faces this old light seems subaqueous and calming, as if they have entered into some finer, stiller place, where their full potential, their dreams and aspirations, can still be achieved, and are but a day, or even only a moment, away.

The guide seems suddenly tired, and why not, for what could be more exhausting than waiting for a thing that’s never going to come?

“Complex times,” she says simply, jarring the tourists’ thoughts back to her world, to Mr. Jefferson’s. “He said that slavery was an abomination to the Lord, even though he remained a slaveowner all his life. He said that he trembled at the thought of this country’s fate when he considered that his Lord was a just Lord.” The tiniest of shrugs, and, despite a sadness of expression, a brave nonchalance in her voice almost approaches a lilt. “One of his slaves, Sally Hemings, bore a child that carried Jefferson family DNA,” she says. One of the audience members is up to date on the scandal and whispers loudly that the father couldn’t have been any of Jefferson’s brothers, as they were all out of the country at the time the conception would have occurred. The guide’s eyes glitter and flash, but she ignores the blasphemer. On to the next room.

“We know that he loved trees, forests,” she says. “All of nature. A fine and eloquent writer, as well.” She closes her eyes with an expression that seems to suggest she is recalling last night’s kisses.

“His Notes on the State of Virginia, initially a response to a questionnaire sent to him in 1780 by Francois Marbois, then the secretary to the French legation in Philadelphia, is one of our most remarkable documents from the age of Enlightenment and remains one of the most influential scientific books ever written by an American.” She squeezes her eyes shut tighter, continues to murmur his praises like a dove cooing or a breeze moving quietly through the boughs of tall pines.

“His was a remarkable blending of scientific and literary sensibilities. He was one of the first philosophers to argue for the concept we know now as ‘biodiversity,’ when he stated: ‘We must learn to accept that not all beauty exists primarily to serve our hungers, but can exist on its own grounds. The earth contains not less than thirty or forty thousand kinds of plants; not less than six or seven hundred of birds; nor less than three or four hundred of quadrupeds; to say nothing of the thousand species of fishes. Of reptiles and insects, there are more than can be numbered. To all these must be added the swarms and varieties of animalcules and minute vegetables not visible to the natural eye, but whose existence is surely reciprocal with those of the greater beings.’

“‘On comparing this vast profusion of life and multiplicity of beings with the few grains and grasses and livestock of those species immediately serviceable to the wants of man, it is difficult to understand the compulsion within us to erase or remodel every work of nature by a destruction not only of individuals, but of entire species; and not only of a few species, but of every species that does not seem to serve our immediate accommodations.’

“‘All wilderness has beauty. And from that beauty, worth on its own accord.’”

The guide pauses, as if remembering days she spent with Mr. Jefferson, youthful days, days in a love nearly as deep as the one she possesses for him now. She pauses, casts her eyes to the soft hills of the horizon. “‘The Tulip Tree,’ she says, recalling more of his text. “‘It creates astonishment, in the spring, to behold trees of such a magnitude, bearing a flower for a fortnight together in its shape, size, and color resembling tulips. In some places these marvelous leaves possess the appellation of a woman’s smock.’” A glance to the east garden. “‘And the dogwood: among the curious plants growing in our wilderness, none contribute more to the beauty of the springtime than the delightful dogwood. Our natives have the custom of tying a flowering branch of this tree around the catties’ neck, when they fall down exhausted by heat in the summer, imagining that its redolent odor and other ornamental virtues contributes to their recovery.’

“‘In all, our wild forests will continue surely to be one of our nation’s greatest treasures and sources of strength, and will provide with their grace and might a durable example of proper moral fiber and endless inspiration. The men who oversee their destruction for the quickness of profit are no better than murderers, in my account.’”

Which brings her to the Lewis and Clark room. More gold light seeping in through those old and molten windows, and just outside the curved glass, the elegant leaves of an Osage orange, brought back by the intrepid voyagers on their return from the Great West—a place Mr. Jefferson had always wanted to visit but never saw.

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