In
Vogue'
s 1969 Christmas issue, Vladimir Nabokov
offered some advice for teaching James Joyce's
Ulysses: "Instead of perpetuating the pretentious nonsense of Homeric, chromatic, and visceral chapter headings, instructors should prepare maps of Dublin with Bloom's and Stephen's intertwining itineraries clearly traced." He drew
a charming one himself. Several decades later, a Boston College English professor named Joseph Nugent and his colleagues put together an
annotated Google map that shadows Stephen Dedalus and Leopold Bloom step by step. The Virginia Woolf Society of Great Britain, as well as students at the Georgia Institute of Technology, have
similarly reconstructed the paths of the London amblers in "Mrs. Dalloway."
Such maps clarify how much these novels depend on a curious link between mind and feet. Joyce and Woolf were writers who transformed the quicksilver of consciousness into paper and ink. To accomplish this, they sent characters on walks about town. As Mrs. Dalloway walks, she does not merely perceive the city around her. Rather, she dips in and out of her past, remolding London into a highly textured mental landscape, "making it up, building it round one, tumbling it, creating it every moment afresh."
Since at least the time of peripatetic Greek philosophers, many other writers have discovered a deep, intuitive connection between walking, thinking, and writing. (In fact, Adam Gopnik
wrote about walking in
The New Yorker just two weeks ago.) "How vain it is to sit down to write when you have not stood up to live!" Henry David Thoreau
penned in his journal. "Methinks that the moment my legs begin to move, my thoughts begin to flow." Thomas DeQuincey has
calculated that William Wordsworth—whose poetry is filled with tramps up mountains, through forests, and along public roads—walked as many as a hundred and eighty thousand miles in his lifetime, which comes to an average of six and a half miles a day starting from age five.
Comment: Read more about writing for better mental and physical health: