Strolling beside a lake on a foggy morning, I relish the solitude of the forest. But every few minutes I hear a splash as a fish leaps to catch a bug. The sound awakens my inner angler who urges me to cast a line.
In my pocket, a have a copy of Jack Kerouac’s Big Sur, a novel he wrote when he needed to escape from noise and the pressure of fame. Like Thoreau, he retreated to a cabin, not to see how frugally he could live, but to fight his inner demons.
