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The Long and Difficult Publication History of James Joyce’s Dubliners

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This month marks the 100th anniversary of the publication of author James Joyce’s Dubliners. His collection of short stories depicting the everyday trials and tribulations of the residents of his hometown was released with minimal fanfare in June 1914, but—given the immense literary importance of his subsequent works like A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man and the groundbreaking 1922 Modernist masterpiece Ulysses—has since risen in significance.

But Dubliners didn’t just appear out of nowhere. In fact, its author—and its would-be publishers—endured a painful nine-year-long struggle before the book made it to print. The story of how Dubliners finally came to be printed is a fascinating tale of artistic frustration and persistence despite years of dismissal.


In late 1904, Joyce was living abroad in self-imposed exile—partially for political reasons, and partially because he eloped with his wife, Nora—when he published three short stories (“The Sisters,” “Eveline,” and “After the Race”) in a weekly publication called The Irish Homestead. The author thought that he might publish a collection of stories in a book the following year, and wrote nine more stories for it; while he was trying to make a living teaching English at a Berlitz Language School in Trieste (now a part of Italy) in 1905, Joyce sent the collection to noted London publisher Grant Richards for consideration.

Richards eventually accepted the book in early 1906, and in February, Joyce sent along a new story called "Two Gallants" for the book. The publisher quickly drew up a contract for the eager—and financially strapped—writer-in-exile to sign in March of that year. And that’s when the trouble began.


Richards didn’t bother to read “Two Gallants” before he sent it and the other proofs of the collection off to the printer. At the time, English law stated that a printer was just as guilty of any charges of obscenity as the writer of the book, and not long after Richards sent in the proofs, the printer informed the publisher that there was “obscenity” in the stories. The objections were about risqué sections in the story “Counterparts,” which described male and female anatomy and, in the story "Grace," there was specific disapproval of the word “bloody” in lines like “Then he has a bloody big bowl of cabbage before him on the table and a bloody big spoon like a shovel." 

Richards, who had just rebuilt his publishing company after rebounding from bankruptcy, wanted to make sure there was no trouble with the law. The publisher told Joyce that changes needed to be made. But upon hearing which passages were troublesome, the author pointed out that the word “bloody” appeared numerous times elsewhere in the collection—and in worse contexts, like “Here’s this fellow come to the throne after his bloody owl’ mother keeping him out of it till the man was grey” in “Ivy Day in the Committee Room,” and “If any fellow tried that sort of game on with his sister he’d bloody well put his teeth down his throat” in “The Boarding-House.”

“I have written my book with considerable care," Joyce said in a letter to Richards, "in spite of a hundred difficulties and in accordance with what I understand to be the classical tradition of my art." Still, with much chagrin, he submitted an entirely altered manuscript in July 1906. It included a new story called “A Little Cloud,” and the allegedly questionable uses of “bloody,” as well as the offensive the portions of “Counterparts,” had been removed. There was also a note from the author to the publisher: “I think I have injured these stories by these deletions but I sincerely trust you will recognize that I have tried to meet your wishes and scruples fairly.”

The writer, thousands of miles away from the publisher, eagerly awaited a response from London about his now-bastardized stories. In September, he finally got one: Richards rejected the altered collection outright, but cheekily implied interest in Joyce’s new autobiographical novel (eventually published as A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man) with the potential to revisit the short stories later.

Tired of being strung along, Joyce promptly got a lawyer with the intention of suing Richards for breach of contract, but was soon talked down. Instead, Joyce focused on his first book of poems, Chamber Music, which was published in early 1907.

Any influence Joyce thought that little milestone might have had on helping get Dubliners published didn’t; between November 1907 and February 1908, the collection was swiftly rejected by at least four different publishers, and while it drew initial interest from Dublin-based Maunsel & Co., Joyce was so distraught over his failed efforts that it took him a year to work up the courage to send the manuscript to them—which he finally did in April 1909. A positive response from that publishing house prompted an emotionally renewed Joyce to travel to Dublin to meet with Maunsel & Co. co-founder George Roberts, which led to a new contract the writer gladly signed on August 19. But more troubles were ahead.


After the contract was signed, Joyce returned to his teaching job in Trieste. In October 1909, he came back to Dublin to oversee the opening of the city’s first movie theater, the Volta Cinematograph—which he had helped coordinate and gather investors for—and to review the galley proofs of Dubliners before they were sent off to be published. The proofs, however, were delayed until the following year because of a very familiar grievance: Roberts was afraid of potential trouble from what he thought were “obscene” passages, particularly a part from “Ivy Day in the Committee Room” that allegedly slandered the recently deceased King Edward VII.

Despite Joyce’s further capitulation to making more changes, Roberts’ overwhelming objections forced the publisher to announce that publication would be postponed indefinitely. Joyce was understandably dejected by the decision. “[I] shall hope that what they may publish may resemble that to the writing of which I gave thought and time,” he wrote to Roberts. But at least he was busy with the Volta ... until July 1910, when financial difficulties and management squabbles caused him to cease his involvement in the cinema altogether.

So Joyce refocused on his old projects, Dubliners and A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. The writer and Roberts made headway through the end of 1910, with Joyce making reluctant but amicable changes to take out the alleged obscenities in the stories, and the book finally had a proposed release date of January 20, 1911. But after Joyce protested Roberts’ demand to take out all references to the King in “Ivy Day,” the publisher postponed Dubliners yet again.

Knowing how desperate Joyce was, Roberts fell completely out of contact with the writer—who was still in Trieste—in order to get him to accede to every single one of his demands. But Joyce would not back down, and even attempted to match Roberts’ outrageous behavior: He wrote a letter to King George V himself along with the marked passages from “Ivy Day,” graciously asking His Majesty if they were offensive to his dead father. Joyce requested that the King “inform me whether in his view the passage (certain allusions made by a person of the story in the idiom of his social class) should be withheld from publication as offensive.”

Surprisingly, Joyce received a response—but not from the King himself. Instead, the reply came from the King’s secretary, who said that “It is inconsistent with rule for His Majesty to express his opinion in such cases.”


Left to hang out to dry by his publisher—not to mention the King of England—Joyce decided to take out his frustration by writing an account of Dubliners’ troubled publication history to send to the Irish press. He called it “A Curious History,” and it included the allegedly scandalous passage from “Ivy Day” that Roberts objected to. If the broadsheets printed it, Joyce thought, then why couldn’t Roberts?

It was a good idea, but it didn’t have the effect that Joyce had hoped for. A few Irish papers printed the account, but no real change came from it, forcing the perpetually downtrodden writer to go to Dublin and confront his publisher face to face.

Upon seeing Joyce at the Maunsel & Co. offices, Roberts compared him to massive stone cliffs in Northern Ireland, saying, “The Giant’s Causeway is soft putty compared with you,” and the publisher was forced to address the elephant in the room. Roberts explained that he had slowly understood the book to be “anti-Irish,” and publishing such a book would guarantee that the company would lose money. Further meetings bore even more stringent demands from Roberts: He wanted Joyce to substitute fictitious names for the real places included in “Counterparts,” and excise whole stories completely, which Joyce—no doubt exhausted—agreed to. Roberts also demanded a letter, drafted by a lawyer, that stated that the language within “Ivy Day” wasn’t libelous.

Joyce’s lawyer complied, but in a move unlucky for the beleaguered writer, the letter claimed that while the language in “Ivy Day” was harmless, another story in the collection, “An Encounter,” could potentially be libelous. It was later discovered—unbeknownst to Joyce and denied by Roberts—that one of Maunsel & Co.’s biggest clients was Lady Aberdeen. As the wife of the head of the Irish Vigilance Committee, which could prosecute based on libel suits, it was likely that she had put pressure on Roberts to suppress Joyce’s book.

Eventually, following more demands that diluted Joyce’s original vision, the altered proofs of Dubliners made it all the way to the printer. But before the book could be printed, the proofs were surreptitiously destroyed—though not before Joyce managed to get a complete set himself. The details of just how Joyce came by the proofs is still a mystery; all he would say is that he obtained the copy "by ruse."

After this blow, Joyce decided to go back to Trieste—but not before composing an autobiographical poem called “Gas from a Burner,” slamming Roberts as a publisher and for all he had put him through. Joyce never went back to Dublin again.


The next few years were dark times for Joyce, who struggled to support his family financially and himself mentally while completing A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man and beginning the initial parts of Ulysses. Then, in December 1913, a letter arrived from Grant Richards—the original publisher who had ultimately rejected Dubliners—inquiring about the collection. In the years in between, Joyce had caught the eye of London literary magazine The Egoist—which was overseen by Ezra Pound and eventually edited by Hilda Doolittle and T.S. Eliot—and Richards, inspired by such literary clout, decided he wanted to publish Dubliners after all.     

Eight years after signing his first contract with Richards, Joyce signed his second, which stipulated Joyce wouldn’t receive royalties on the first 500 copies of the book and that he had to personally buy 120 copies himself. He later approved proofs (which were ultimately not to his liking because of small inconsistencies, including using quotation marks instead of dashes) at the end of April.

Finally, after nine long years, Dubliners was published on June 15, 1914, in a run of 1250 copies. Though it debuted to generally positive reviews, in its first year, the book sold only 499 copies—one short of Joyce being able to contractually profit from it. Richards eventually passed on publishing A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man—he found it “quite hopeless”—but he would publish Joyce’s play, Exiles, in 1918. Looking back on those frustrating times, Joyce told author and poet William Butler Yeats, “I hope that now at last matters may begin to go a little more smoothly for me for, to tell the truth, it is very tiresome to wait and hope for so many years.”

And indeed, things would go a little more smoothly from there on out. Dubliners found an American publisher in 1916, heightening Joyce's literary profile and pushing his notoriety worldwide. But it was his monumental masterpiece Ulysses, published in 1922, that made him one of the most renowned writers in history.

Additional Sources: James JoyceRichard Ellmann; "Publishing History of Dubliners" [PDF], Professor David Madden; A Dubliners Time Chart; Selected Letters of James Joyce, edited by Richard Ellmann.

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15 Things You Might Not Know About Jules Verne
Hulton Archive, Getty Images
Hulton Archive, Getty Images

Jules Verne, widely regarded as one of the fathers of science fiction, wrote some of literature's most famous adventure novels, including seminal works like Journey to the Center of the Earth, Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, and Around the World in 80 Days. In addition to helping pioneer a new genre of writing, the French author also sailed the world, had a career as a stockbroker, fell in love with his cousin, and was shot by his nephew. Here are 15 facts you probably didn't know about him.


On February 8, 1828, Pierre and Sophie Verne welcomed their first child, Jules Gabriel, at Sophie's mother's home in Nantes, a city in western France. Verne's birthplace had a profound impact on his writing. In the 19th century, Nantes was a busy port city that served as a major hub for French shipbuilders and traders, and Verne's family lived on Ile Feydeau, a small, man-made island in a tributary of the Loire River. Verne spent his childhood watching ships sail down the Loire and imagining what it would be like to climb aboard them [PDF]. He would later work these early memories of maritime life into his writing.


Verne began writing poetry at just 12 years old. As a teenager, he used poetry as an outlet for his burgeoning romantic feelings. Verne fell in love with his cousin, Caroline Tronson, who was a year and a half older than him. He wrote and dedicated poems to Tronson, gave her presents, and attended dances with her. Unfortunately, Tronson didn't reciprocate her younger cousin's feelings. In 1847, when Verne was 19 and Tronson was 20, she married a man two decades her senior. Verne was heartbroken.


While Verne had been passionate about writing since his early teens, his father strongly encouraged young Jules to follow in his footsteps and enter the legal profession. Soon after Tronson's marriage, Verne's father capitalized on his son's depression, convincing him to move to Paris to study law.

Verne graduated with a law degree in 1851. But he kept writing fiction during this period, and continued to clash with his father over his career path. In 1852, Verne's father arranged for him to practice law in Nantes, but Verne decided to pursue life as a writer instead.


Verne's time in Paris coincided with a period of intense political instability. The French Revolution of 1848 broke out soon after Verne moved to the city to study law. Though he didn't participate, he was strikingly close to the conflict and its turbulent aftermath, including the coup d'état that ended France's Second Republic. "On Thursday the fighting was intense; at the end of my street, houses were knocked down by cannon fire," he wrote to his mother during the fighting that followed the coup in December 1851. Verne managed to stay out of the political upheaval during those years, but his writing later explored themes of governmental strife. In his 1864 novella The Count of Chanteleine: A Tale of the French Revolution, Verne wrote about the struggles of ordinary and noble French people during the French Revolutionary Wars, while his novel The Flight to France recounted the wartime adventures of an army captain in 1792.


In May 1856, Verne was the best man at his best friend's wedding in Amiens, a city in northern France. During the wedding festivities, Verne lodged with the bride's family and met Honorine de Viane Morel, the bride's sister. He developed a crush on Morel, a 26-year-old widow with two kids, and in January 1857, with the permission of her family, the two married.

There was one big problem. Verne had been writing plays for Paris theaters, but being a playwright didn't pay the bills. Verne needed a respectable income to support Morel and her daughters. Morel's brother offered Verne a job at a brokerage, and he accepted, quitting his theater job to become a stockbroker at the Paris Bourse. Writing was never too far from Verne's mind, though. He woke up early each day to write and research for several hours before heading to his day job.


A caricature of Jules Verne on the sea floor with fantastic sea creatures on the cover of a magazine.
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Modern readers probably think of Verne's most famous books as distinct entities, but his adventure novels were actually part of a series. In the early 1860s, Verne met Pierre-Jules Hetzel, an established publisher and magazine editor who helped Verne publish his first novel, Five Weeks in a Balloon. This novel served as the beginning of Voyages Extraordinaires, a series of dozens of books written by Verne and published by Hetzel. Most of these novels—including famous titles like Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea—appeared in installments in Hetzel's magazine before being published in book form.


Starting in 1863, Verne agreed to write two volumes per year for Hetzel, a contract that provided him with a steady source of income for decades. Between 1863 and 1905, Verne published 54 novels about travel, adventure, history, science, and technology for the Voyages Extraordinaires series. He worked closely with Hetzel on characters, structure, and plot until the publisher's death in 1886. Verne's writing wasn't limited to this series, however; in total, he wrote 65 novels over the course of his life, though some would not be published until long after his death.


During the 1860s, Verne's career was taking off, and he was making good money. So in 1867, he bought a small yacht, which he named the Saint Michel, after his son, Michel. When he wasn't living in Amiens, he spent time sailing around Europe to the Channel Islands, along the English Coast, and across the Bay of Biscay. Besides enjoying the peace and quiet at sea, he also worked during these sailing trips, writing most of the manuscripts for Around the World in Eighty Days and Twenty Thousand Leagues Under The Sea on his yacht. As he earned more money, he replaced the Saint Michel with a larger boat that he called the Saint Michel II. A few years later, he bought a third vessel, the Saint Michel III, a steam yacht that he hired a crew of 10 to man on long voyages to Scotland and through the Mediterranean.


Verne wrote in French, but his works have always had an international appeal. Since the 1850s, his writing has been translated into approximately 150 languages—making him the second most translated author ever. He has appeared in translation even more often than William Shakespeare. He is second only to Agatha Christie, who holds the world record.


Although Verne wrote primarily for adults, many English-language publishers considered his science fiction writing to be juvenile and marketed his books to children. Translators dumbed down his work, simplifying stories, cutting heavily researched passages, summarizing dialogue, and in some cases, nixing anything that might be construed as a critique of the British Empire. Many translations even contain outright errors, such as measurements converted incorrectly.

Some literary historians now bemoan the shoddy translations of many of Verne's works, arguing that almost all of these early English translations feature significant changes to both plot and tone. Even today, these poor translations make up much of Verne's available work in English. But anglophone readers hoping to read more authentic versions of his stories are in luck. Thanks to scholarly interest, there has been a recent surge in new Verne translations that aim to be more faithful to the original texts.


Starting in his twenties, Verne began experiencing sudden bouts of extreme stomach pain. He wrote about his agonizing stomach cramps in letters to family members, but he failed to get a proper diagnosis from doctors. To try to ease his pain, he experimented with different diets, including one in which he ate only eggs and dairy. Historians believe that Verne may have had colitis or a related digestion disorder.

Even more unsettling than the stomach pain, Verne suffered from five episodes of facial paralysis over the course of his life. During these painful episodes, one side of his face suddenly became immobile. After the first attack, doctors treated his facial nerve with electric stimulation, but he had another attack five years later, and several more after that. Recently, researchers have concluded that he had Bell's palsy, a temporary form of one-sided facial paralysis caused by damage to the facial nerve. Doctors have hypothesized that it was the result of ear infections or inflammation, but no one knows for sure why he experienced this.

Verne developed type-2 diabetes in his fifties, and his health declined significantly in the last decade of his life. He suffered from high blood pressure, chronic dizziness, tinnitus, and other maladies, and eventually went partially blind.


In March 1886, a traumatic incident left the 58-year-old Verne disabled for the rest of his life. Verne's nephew Gaston, who was then in his twenties and suffering from mental illness, suddenly became violent, to Verne's detriment. The writer was arriving home one day when, out of the blue, Gaston shot him twice with a pistol. Thankfully, Verne survived, but the second bullet that Gaston fired struck the author's left leg.


After the incident, Gaston was sent to a mental asylum. He wasn't diagnosed with a specific disorder, but most historians believe he suffered from paranoia or schizophrenia.

Verne never fully recovered from the attack. The bullet damaged his left leg badly, and his diabetes complicated the healing process. A secondary infection left him with a noticeable limp that persisted until his death in 1905.


Verne's body of work heavily influenced steampunk, the science fiction subgenre that takes inspiration from 19th century industrial technology. Some of Verne's characters, as well as the fictional machines he wrote about, have appeared in prominent steampunk works. For example, the TV show The Secret Adventures of Jules Verne explored the idea that Verne actually experienced the fantastic things he wrote about, and Captain Nemo from Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea appeared as a character in the comic book series The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen.


Some of the technology Verne imagined in his fiction later became reality. One of the machines that Verne dreamed up, Nautilus—the electric submarine in Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea—came to life years after he first wrote about it. The first installment of the serialized Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea was published in 1869, and the first battery-powered submarines were launched in the 1880s. (Similar submarine designs are still in use today.)

In addition, Verne's Paris In The Twentieth Century contains several surprisingly accurate technological predictions. Written in 1863, the dystopian novel imagines a tech-obsessed Parisian society in 1960. Verne wrote about skyscrapers, elevators, cars with internal combustion engines, trains, electric city lights, and suburbs. He was massively ahead of his time. He even wrote about a group of mechanical calculators (as in, computers) that could communicate with one another over a network (like the Internet). Pretty impressive for a guy born in 1828.

But Verne's influence goes beyond science fiction, steampunk, or real-world technology. His writing has inspired countless authors in genres ranging from poetry to travel to adventure. As Ray Bradbury wrote, "We are all, in one way or another, the children of Jules Verne."

By Benjamin D. Maxham, Public Domain, Wikimedia Commons
11 Simple Facts About Henry David Thoreau
By Benjamin D. Maxham, Public Domain, Wikimedia Commons
By Benjamin D. Maxham, Public Domain, Wikimedia Commons

In his book Walden, Henry David Thoreau declared his love of nature, simplicity, and independence. Although most people know about Thoreau’s time in Walden Woods, as well as his Transcendentalism, abolitionist views, and writing on civil disobedience, there’s a lot more to uncover about him. In honor of his birthday (he would’ve turned 201 years old today), here are 11 things you might not have known about Henry David Thoreau.


Born in Concord, Massachusetts in 1817, David Henry Thoreau switched his first and middle names after graduating from Harvard. His legal name, though, was always David Henry. Although most people today pronounce Thoreau’s surname with the emphasis on the second syllable, he most likely pronounced it “THOR-oh.” Ralph Waldo Emerson’s son, Edward, wrote that the accent in Thoreau’s name was on the first syllable, and other friends called him “Mr. Thorough.”


In the 1820s, Thoreau’s father started manufacturing black-lead pencils. Between teaching students, surveying land, and working as a handyman, Thoreau made money by working for his family’s pencil business. After researching German techniques for making pencils, he invented a grinding machine that made better quality plumbago (a mixture of the lead, graphite, and clay inside a pencil). After his father died, Thoreau ran the family’s pencil company.


In 1844, a year before moving into a house in Walden Woods, the 26-year-old Thoreau was cooking fish he had caught with a friend in the woods outside Concord. The grass around the fire ignited, and the flames burned between 100 and 300 acres of land, thanks to strong winds. Even years later, his neighbors disparagingly called him a rascal and a woods burner. In an 1850 journal entry, Thoreau described how the earth was “uncommonly dry”—there hadn’t been much rain—and how the fire “spread rapidly.” Although he initially felt guilty, he wrote that he soon realized that fire is natural, and lightning could have sparked a fire in the woods just as easily as his cooking accident did.


After Thoreau left the home he built in Walden Woods in 1847, the structure went through multiple iterations. He sold the house to Emerson (it was on land that Emerson already owned), and Emerson sold it to his gardener. The gardener never moved in, so the house was empty until a farmer named James Clark bought it in 1849. Clark moved it to his nearby farm and used it to store grain. In 1868, the roof of the building was removed from the base and used to cover a pigsty. In 1875, the rest of the structure was used as a shed before its timber was used to fix Clark’s barn. Today, you can see replicas of Thoreau’s house near Walden Pond in Massachusetts.


In 1839, Thoreau wrote in his journal about how he fell in love with Ellen Sewall, an 18-year-old from Cape Cod. In 1840, Thoreau’s older brother John proposed marriage to Sewall but was rejected. So, like any good brother, Thoreau wrote a letter to Sewall, proposing that she marry him instead. Sewall rejected him too, probably due to her family disapproving of the Thoreau family’s liberal views on Christianity.

Despite the aforementioned marriage proposal, some historians and biographers speculate that Thoreau was gay. He never married, reportedly preferred celibacy, and his journals reveal references to male bodies but no female ones.


Historians have debunked the misconception that Thoreau was a selfish hermit who lived alone so he could stay away from other people. Rather than being a loner, Thoreau was an individualist who was close to his family members and lived with Emerson’s family (on and off) for years. To build his cabin in the woods, he got help from his friends including Emerson and Bronson Alcott, the father of Louisa May Alcott. During his stay in the woods, he frequently entertained guests, visited friends, and walked to the (nearby) town of Concord. At his funeral at Concord’s First Parish Church, a large group of friends attended to mourn and celebrate his life.


Long before tiny houses were trendy, Thoreau wrote about the benefits of living a simple, minimalist lifestyle. In Walden, he wrote about giving up the luxuries of everyday life in order to quiet the mind and have time for thinking. “My greatest skill has been to want but little,” he wrote. Thoreau also related his love of simplicity to the craft of writing: “It is the fault of some excellent writers ... that they express themselves with too great fullness and detail. They give the most faithful, natural, and lifelike account of their sensations, mental and physical, but they lack moderation and sententiousness.”


Although he was a minimalist, Thoreau wrote an abundance of notes and ideas in his journals, essays, and letters. He jotted down his observations of nature, writing in detail about everything from how plant seeds spread across the land to the changing temperature of Walden Pond to animal behavior. In addition to his plethora of notes and environmental data, Thoreau also collected hundreds of plant specimens and birds’ eggs.


In 1862, newspapers widely reported the news of Thoreau’s death. Obituaries for the 44-year-old writer appeared in The Boston Transcript, The Boston Daily Advertiser, The Liberator, The Boston Journal, The New-York Daily Tribune, and The Salem Observer. The obituaries describe Thoreau as an “eccentric author” and “one of the most original thinkers our country has produced.”


After Thoreau’s death, the Boston Society of Natural History got a huge gift. Thoreau, a member, gave the society his collections of plants, Indian antiquities, and birds’ eggs and nests. The plants were pressed and numbered—there were more than 1000 species—and the Native American antiquities included stone weapons that Thoreau had found while walking in Concord.


As a big fan of both Thoreau and Transcendentalism, musician Don Henley of the Eagles started The Walden Woods Project in 1990 to stop 68 acres of Walden Woods from being turned into offices and condominiums. The project succeeded in saving the woods, and today The Walden Woods Project is a nonprofit organization that conserves Walden Woods, preserves Thoreau’s legacy, and manages an archive of Thoreau’s books, maps, letters, and manuscripts. In an interview with Preservation Magazine, Henley described the importance of preserving Walden Woods: “The pond and the woods that inspired the writing of Walden are historically significant not only because they were the setting for a great American classic, but also because Walden Woods was Henry David Thoreau's living laboratory, where he formulated his theory of forest succession, a precursor to contemporary ecological science.”


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