The point, of course, is to make yourself alive — to feel the force of being in your sinew and your spirit, to tremble with the beauty and the terror of it all, to breathe lungfuls of life that gasp you awake from the trance of near-living induced by the system of waste and want we call civilization.

Inside the system, these opportunities for raw aliveness are not easily found — they must be sought, seized, and then surrendered to.

At four-thirty in the afternoon of June 17th, 1914, a month before the outbreak of WWI and five years before his reckoning with the creative spirit and the meaning of life on a remote Alaskan island, the artist and philosopher Rockwell Kent (June 21, 1882–March 13, 1971) boarded a small boat headed for Greenland. The crew consisted of him, a Parisian skipper named Cupid, and the young captain, whose father had built the boat and named it Direction after his credo that direction is the most essential thing one must have in life.

Kent, who had just turned thirty-two and was struggling to make a living as an artist, was confounded to be assigned navigator of the expedition. But he took the duty of direction seriously — along with his drawing paper and inks, he packed a notebook into which he had studiously copied formulae from a spherical geometry textbook and his “beautiful and precious sextant,” the box of which read NATIONAL PHYSICAL LABORATORY CERTIFICATE OF EXAMINATION CLASS A. Along the way, he would come to see in the science of navigation a philosophy for living consonant with the old boat-builder’s credo — after narrowly escaping being crushed by icebergs, Kent would reflect:

Even in the most dreary situation you keep your eyes on where you want to be.

Where he wanted to be was the unknown, guided not by an instrument but by the shimmering urge to break free from the chains of habit, to contact something vaster and more alive. He opens N by E (public library) — the exquisite account of his year in Greenland — with that ignition spark of the imagination exhilarated at the beckoning horizon as New York Harbor vanishes behind the stern:

The bright sun shone upon us; the lake was blue under the westerly breeze, and luminous, how luminous! the whole far world of our imagination. How like a colored lens the colored present! through it we see the forward vista of our lives. Here, in the measure that the water widened in our wake and heart strings stretched to almost breaking, the golden future neared us and enfolded us, made us at last — how soon! — oblivious to all things but the glamour of adventure. And while one world diminished, narrowed and then disappeared, before us a new world unrolled and neared us to display itself. Who can deny the human soul its everlasting need to make the unknown known; not for the sake of knowing, not to inform itself or be informed or wise, but for the need to exercise the need to know? What is that need but the imagination’s hunger for the new and raw materials of its creative trade? Of things and facts assured to us and known we’ve got to make the best, and live with it. That humdrum is the price of living. We live for those fantastic and unreal moments of beauty which our thoughts may build upon the passing panorama of experience.

A decade later, Georgia O’Keeffe would locate the essence of being an artist in “making your unknown known… and keeping the unknown always beyond you.”

The unknown is in some sense always beyond us because it is always inside us — that is what true solitude reveals, why it can be so clarifying and so terrifying at the same time.

Kent touches this terrifying thrill on his first night swaddled by infinite horizons on every side:

As it darkens and the stars come out, and the black sea appears unbroken everywhere save for the restless turbulence of its own plain, as the lights are extinguished in the cabin, then I am suddenly alone. And almost terror grips me for I now feel the solitude; under the keel and overhead the depths, — and me, enveloped in immensity.

There amid the open sea, where “the solitude is unrelieved,” Kent confronts the most elemental questions of existence — why are we here, how did we get here, what does it mean to be alive, to have purpose, to wield a will against the given of the universe?

How strange to be here in a little boat! — and not by accident, not cast adrift here from a wreck, but purposely! What purpose, whose? And if I call to mind how I have read of Greenland and for years have longed to go there, how I have read and read again the Iceland sagas and been stirred by them, how I’ve been moved by the strange story of the Greenland settlements and their tragic end, by all the glamour and the mystery of those adventures, how I have followed in the wake of Leif and found America, and how by all of that I’ve come to need to know those countries, tread their soil, to touch the ancient stones of their enclosures, sail their seas to think myself a Viking like themselves, — then I may boast that purpose and my will have brought me here. And yet this very moment is the contradiction of it. The darkness and the wind! the imponderable immensity of space and elements! My frail hands grip the tiller; my eyes stare hypnotically at the stars beyond the tossing masthead or watch the bow wave as we part the seas. I hold the course. I have no thought or will, no power, to alter it.

[…]

Dream? here is reality so real it nips the bone.

N by E is a ravishing read in its entirety. Couple it with Kent’s later reflection on wilderness, solitude, and creativity drawn from the nine months he spent in Alaska with his young son, then revisit Henry James on how to stop waiting and start living, Hermann Hesse on how to be more alive, and Ellen Bass’s superb ode to waking up from the stupor of near-living.