It’s easy to dunk on Utopians because their experiments in the human spirit are based on delusions and usually end in disaster. Hawthorne was just another communard toiling away for long hours on his share of the crude chores, a shovel rather than a pen in his hands, as he scooped shit from a gigantic pile that was so vital to the commune’s manure-sales business that Ripley dubbed it the “gold mine.” Attempting perfection, Hawthorne realized, kinda stunk. Within a few months, however, the novelty wore off, when he realized the plowing never ended and the writing never began. Initially he found the labor he did thrilling, never having had defined muscles before. In 1840, the Twice-Told Tales author was wary about joining minister George Ripley’s Brook Farm collective, but he decided to give the nascent Utopian community a go hoping that living on the acreage would be a means for him to alleviate the pressures of the artist’s life and devote his time to writing his way into literary history.
Nathaniel Hawthorne learned this truism the hard way. Trying to make the world better is noble, but trying to make it perfect is pathological. Paradise Now: The Story of American Utopianism (Chris Jennings)
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