My old friend Erin used to get mightily cheesed off at the number of young women of his acquaintance who'd go all wide eyed and say "like, what I really want to do is live in the woods. In a cabin".
"No, you don't" he'd say. "You really, really don't".
And then he'd explain at length exactly what living in a cabin in the woods entails. It turned out they probably, all things considered, didn't want to live in the woods at all.
Yes there's literary precedent for the cabin-in-the-woods thing. Give yourself the solitary outdoors life to find the answer to big questions about the human condition. Find out how to live. Suffer privation and hardship (you would not believe how much a bit of suffering turns a fellow's witterings into persuasive testimony: it's a classic 19th century move. Read those field notes, and between the lines, you'll see "these observations are true, because oh, how I suffered in getting them).
I am being mean to Thoreau, and I don't mean to be. Walden rocks. (I went to Walden Pond once. It took the edge off the book, rather: like a Helen Hanff nut making a pilgrimage to 84 Charing Cross Road and discovering it's no longer a bookshop run by Anthony Hopkins, but an All Bar One)
There is no reason for this post other than just to say, ladies and gentlemen, this evening, I would like very much to go and live in the woods. Not because I want to find big answers to big questions, or because I'm feeling terribly 19th century and transcendental. But because right now, I have had it up to here with here.