Los bosques de Maine
- Idioma:
- inglés
- Estado:
- Obra completa
- Autoría:
- Escrita por el autor
- Estado del texto:
- Sin ruido de escaneo detectado (medición automática sobre todo el texto, no revisada a mano)
- Extensión:
- ~110.000 palabras · 502 pasajes
Cita esta obra
- APAHenry David Thoreau. (n.d.). The Maine Woods [Los bosques de Maine]. Digital reproduction: SigPhi. https://sigphiai.com/es/works/thoreau/the-maine-woods
- MLAHenry David Thoreau. The Maine Woods [Los bosques de Maine]. Digital reproduction, SigPhi, https://sigphiai.com/es/works/thoreau/the-maine-woods.
- ChicagoHenry David Thoreau. The Maine Woods [Los bosques de Maine]. Digital reproduction, SigPhi. https://sigphiai.com/es/works/thoreau/the-maine-woods.
Referencia de la edición que reproduce SigPhi: SigPhi es su reproducción digital, no el editor. El año de la edición no consta en los metadatos (por eso «n.d.») y el traductor solo aparece cuando consta.
De qué trata
El relato de tres viajes a los bosques del norte de Maine, entre 1846 y 1857, y el libro donde Thoreau encuentra una naturaleza que no se parece nada a la de Walden.
Contexto e historia
Walden era un estanque a tres kilómetros del pueblo; esto es bosque de verdad, y el cambio se nota. El momento más conocido es la ascensión al monte Katahdin, donde Thoreau se encuentra con un paisaje que lo rechaza, y escribe unas páginas desconcertadas sobre la materia pura, inhumana, que no espera a nadie: «¡Contacto! ¡Contacto! ¿Quiénes somos? ¿Dónde estamos?». El resto son travesías en canoa con guías penobscot —Joe Polis sobre todo, que aparece como una persona y no como un tipo—, y observaciones precisas sobre árboles, ríos y el negocio de la madera que ya se los estaba comiendo. Se publicó póstumamente en 1864. Es el Thoreau menos domesticado y el que más se lee hoy en ecología.
Contexto editorial, no una fuente citable: a diferencia de los pasajes de la obra, estos datos no se pueden comprobar contra el corpus.
whistler duck on the river, of the jay and chickadee around us, and of the pigeon woodpecker in the openings, were the sounds that we heard. This was what you might call a bran-new country; the only roads were of Nature’s making, and the few houses were camps. Here, then, one could no longer accuse institutions and society, but must front the true source of evil. There are three classes of inhabitants who either frequent or inhabit the country which we had now entered: first, the loggers, who, for a part of the year, the winter and spring, are far the most numerous, but in the summer, except a few explorers for timber, completely desert it; second, the few settlers I have named, the only permanent inhabitants, who live on the verge of it, and help raise supplies for the former; third, the hunters, mostly Indians, who range over it in their season. At the end of three miles we came to the Mattaseunk stream and mill, where there was even a rude wooden railroad running down to the Penobscot, the last railroad we were to see. We crossed one tract, on the bank of the river, of more than a hundred acres of heavy timber, which had just been felled and burnt over, and was still smoking. Our trail lay through the midst of it, and was well-nigh blotted out. The trees lay at full length, four or five feet deep, and crossing each other in all directions, all black as charcoal, but perfectly sound within, still good for fuel or for timber; soon they would be cut into lengths and burnt again. Here were thousands of cords, enough to keep the poor of Boston and New York amply warm for a winter, which only cumbered the ground and were in the settler’s way. And the whole of that solid and interminable forest is doomed to be gradually devoured thus by fire, like shavings, and no man be warmed by it.…