A Philosophy of Walking by Frédéric Gros Read Free Book Online Page B

distinct plopping of drops splashing on stone, the long melodious weave of sheets of rain falling steadily.
    It’s impossible to be alone when walking, with so many things under our gaze which are given to us through the inalienable grasp of contemplation. The intoxication of the promontory when, after a struggle, we have reached the rocky point and sat down, and when the prospect, the landscape is given to us at last. All those fields, houses, forests, paths, all ours, for us. We have mastered all that by our ascent, and it only remains to rejoice in that mastery.
    Who could feel alone when he possesses the world? Seeing, dominating, looking mean possessing. But without the inconveniences of ownership: one benefits from the world’s spectacle almost as a thief. But not a thief altogether: for to climb one has to work. All that I see, that is open to the gaze, is mine. As far as I can see, I possess it. Not alone: the world is mine, for me, with me.
    They tell this story about a wise pilgrim: he was following a long road, under a dark stormy sky, down a valley in whose dip was a small field of ripe wheat. The well-defined field, among rough scrub and under that black sky, was a perfect square of brightness rippling gently in the wind. The pilgrim enjoyed the beautiful sight as he walked slowly along. Soon he met a peasant returning home with downcast eyes after a hard day’s work, accosted him and pressed his arm, murmuring in a heartfelt tone: ‘Thank you.’ Thepeasant recoiled slightly: ‘I have nothing to give you, poor man.’ The pilgrim replied in a gentle voice: ‘I’m not thanking you to make you give me something, but because you have already given me everything. You have cared for that square of wheat, and through your labour it has acquired the beauty it has today. Now you are only interested in the price of each grain. I’ve been walking, and all the way I have been nourished by its goldenness,’ the old pilgrim ended with a kindly smile. The peasant turned away and walked off, shaking his head and muttering about mad people.
    In that sense you aren’t alone, because when walking you earn the sympathy of all the living things that surround us: trees and flowers. That is why you go walking sometimes, just to pay a visit – to green glades, groves of trees, violet-shaded valleys. You think after a few days, months or years: it’s really been too long since I went there last. It’s expecting me, I should go there on foot. And slowly the road, the feel of the ground underfoot, the shape of the hills, the height of the trees, all come back to you: they are acquaintances.
    Lastly, you are not alone because when you walk you soon become two. Especially after walking for a long time. What I mean is that even when I am alone, there is always this dialogue between the body and the soul. When the walking is steady and continuous, I encourage, praise, congratulate: good legs, carrying me along … almost patting my thigh, as one pats the withers of a horse. During those long moments of effort, when the body strains, I am there to support it: come on, keep it up, of course you can. When I walk, I soon become two. My body and me: a couple, an old story. Trulythe soul is the body’s witness. An active, vigilant witness. It must follow the other’s rhythm, accompany its effort: when you press on the leg during steep ascents, when you feel its weight at the knee. You push on, and the mind punctuates each step: ‘good, good, good’ … The soul is the body’s pride. When I am walking I accompany myself, I am two. And that endlessly relaunched conversation can last all day without boredom. We can’t walk without this split, which is how we feel ourselves making progress. When I am walking I always observe myself, egg myself on.
    It sometimes happens, of course, when for example you are too deep into the rocks, overlooked by crags, no trace of vegetation – too high, too hard, tracks of pebbles and scree –