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Diary and Observations of Thomas Alva Edison
Dagobert D. Runes
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Diary and Observations of Thomas Alva Edison
Dagobert D. Runes
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About This Book
Gain insight into the unique thinking and philosophy of the world's most prolific inventor with this collection of his writings.
American scientist and businessman Thomas Edison contributed much to the well-being and comfort of our modern life. He gave us the electric light, the phonograph, and the motion-picture camera, along with more than one thousand other inventions. Edison was, as fellow inventor Guglielmo Marconi put it, "one of the world's greatest benefactors."
In this volume, editor Dagobert D. Runes presents Edison's diary along with a selection of his social and philosophical ideas taken from available notes, statements, and observations. Readers will discover that many of Edison's casual remarks made decades ago have a definite contemporary significance. His propositions in ethics, philosophy, music, and education show a rare combination of whimsy and deep sincerity.
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The Diary
Menlo Park, N. J.
Sunday, July 12, 1885
Awakened at 5:15 A.M. My eyes were embarrassed by the sunbeams—turned my back to them and tried to take another dip into oblivion—succeeded—awakened at 7 A.M. Thought of Mina,* Daisy, and Mamma G—. Put all 3 in my mental kaleidoscope to obtain a new combination a la Galton. Took Mina as a basis, tried to improve her beauty by discarding and adding certain features borrowed from Daisy and Mamma G. A sort of Raphaelized beauty, got into it too deep, mind flew away and I went to sleep again.
Awakened at 8:15 A.M. Powerful itching of my head, lots of white dry dandruff—what is this d—mn-able material. Perhaps it’s the dust from the dry literary matter I’ve crowded into my noodle lately. Its nomadic. Gets all over my coat; must read about it in the Encyclopedia.
Smoking too much makes me nervous—must lasso my natural tendency to acquire such habits—holding heavy cigar constantly in my mouth has deformed my upper lip, it has a sort of Havana curl.
Arose at 9 o’clock; came downstairs expecting ’twas too late for breakfast—’twasn’t. Couldn’t eat much, nerves of stomach too nicotinny. The root of tobacco plants must go clear through to hell. Satan’s principal agent Dyspepsia must have charge of this branch of the vegetable kingdom. It has just occured to me that the brain may digest certain portions of food, say the etherial part, as well as the stomach—perhaps dandruff is the excreta of the mind—the quantity of this material being directly proportional to the amount of reading one indulges in.
A book on German metaphysics would thus easily ruin a dress suit. After breakfast started reading Hawthorne’s English Note Book, don’t think much of it—perhaps I’m a literary barbarian and am not yet educated up to the point of appreciating fine writing—90 per cent of his book is descriptive of old churches and graveyards and coronors. He and Geo. Selwyn ought to have been appointed perpetual coroners of London.
Two fine things in the book were these: Hawthorne showing to little Rose Hawthorne * a big live lobster, told her it was a very ugly thing and would bite everybody, whereupon she asked, “if the first one God made bit him—” Again
“Ghostland is beyond the jurisdiction of veracity”—I think freckles on the skin are due to some salt of Iron, sunlight brings them out by reducing them from high to low state of oxidation—perhaps with a powerful magnet applied for some time, and then with proper chemicals, these mud holes of beauty might be removed.
Dot * is very busy cleaning the abode of our deaf and dumb parrot—she has fed it tons of edibles, and never got a sound out of it. This bird has the taciturnity of a statue, and the dirt producing capacity of a drove of buffalo.
This is by far the nicest day of this season, neither too hot nor too cold—it blooms on the apex of perfection—an Edenday. Good day for an angels’ picnic. They could lunch on the smell of flowers and new mown hay, drink the moisture of the air, and dance to the hum of bees. Fancy the soul of Plato astride of a butterfly riding around Menlo Park with a lunch basket.
Nature is bound to smile somehow. Holzer † has a little dog which just came on the veranda. The face of this dog was as dismal as a bust of Dante, but the dog wagged its tail continuously. This is evidently the way a dog laughs. I wonder if dogs ever go up to flowers and smell them—I think not—flowers were never intended for dogs and perhaps only incidentally for man. Evidently Darwin has it right. They make themselves pretty to attract the insect world who are the transportation agents of their pollen—pollen freight via Bee line.
There is a bumblebee’s nest somewhere near this veranda. Several times one came near me. Some little information (acquired experimentally) I obtained when a small boy causes me to lose all delight in watching the navigation of this armed flower burglar.
Had dinner at 3 P.M. Ruins of a chicken, rice pudding. I eat too quick. At 4 o’clock Dot came around with her horse “Colonel” and took me out riding—beautiful roads—saw 10 acre lot full of cultivated red raspberries. “A burying ground” so to speak. Got this execrable pun off on Dot.
Dot says she is going to write a novel, already started on. She has the judgment of a girl of 16, although only 12.
We passed through the town of Metuchen. This town was named after an Indian chief. They called him Metuchen, the chief of the rolling lands, the country being undulating. Dot laughed heartily when I told her about a church being a heavenly fire-escape.
Returned from drive at 5 P.M. Commenced reading short sketches of life’s Macauley, Sidney Smith, Dickens and Charlotte Bronte. Macauley, when only 4 years old, omnivorous reader; used book language in his childish conversation. When 5 years old, lady spilled some hot coffee on his legs. After a while she asked him if he was better. He replied, “Madam, the agony has abated.” Macauley’s mother must have built his mind several years before his body.
Sidney Smith’s flashes of wit are perfect—to call them chestnuts would be literary blasphemy. They are wandering jewelets to wander forever in the printers’ world. Don’t like Dickens—don’t know why. I’ll stock my literary cellar with his works later.
Charlotte Bronte was like DeQuincy. What a nice married couple they would have been. I must read Jane Eyre. Played a little on the piano; it’s badly out of tune. Two keys have lost their voice.
Dot just read to me outlines of her proposed novel. The basis seems to be a marriage under duress. I told her that in case of a marriage to put in bucketfuls of misery. This would make it realistic. Speaking of realism in painting, etc., Steele Mackaye, at a dinner given to H. H. Porter, Wm. Winter and myself, told us of a definition of modern realism given by some Frenchman whose name I have forgotten. “Realism is a dirty long-haired painter sitting on the head of a bust of Shakespeare painting a pair of old boots covered with dung.”
The bell rings for supper. Igoe sardines the principal attraction. On seeing them was attacked by a stroke of vivid memory of some sardines I ate last winter that caused a rebellion in the labyrinth of my stomach. Could scarcely swallow them today. They nearly did the “return ball” act.
After supper Dot pitched a ball to me several dozen times—first I ever tried to catch. It was as hard as Nero’s heart—nearly broke my baby-finger. Gave it up. Taught Dot and Maggie how to play “Duck on the rock.” They both thought it great fun. And this is Sunday. My conscience seems to be oblivious of Sunday. It must be incrusted with a sort of irreligious tartr. If I was not so deaf I might go to church and get it taken off or at least loosened. Eccavi! I will read the new version of the bible.
Holzer is going to use the old laboratory for the purpose of hatching chickens artificially by an electric incubator. He is very enthusiastic. Gave me full details. He is a very patient and careful experimenter. Think he will succeed. Everything succeeded in that old laboratory.
Just think electricity employed to cheat a poor hen out of the pleasures of maternity. Machine-born chickens! What is home without a mother?
I suggested to H that he vaccinate his hens with chicken-pox virus. Then the eggs would have their embryo hereditarily inoculated and none of the chickens would have the disease. For economy’s sake he could start with one hen and rooster. He being a scientific man with no farm experience, I explained the necessity of having a rooster. He saw the force of this suggestion at once.
The sun has left us on time. Am going to read from the Encyclopedia Brittanica to steady my nerves, and go to bed early. I will shut my eyes and imagine a terraced abyss, each terrace occupied by a beautiful maiden. To the first I will deliver my mind and they will pass it down to the uttermost depths of silence and oblivion. Went to bed. Worked my imagination for a supply of maidens. Only saw Mina, Daisy and Mamma. Scheme busted—sleep.
* Mina Miller, daughter of Lewis Miller of Akron, Ohio. She and Mr. Edison were married Feb. 94, 1886.
Mamma G. was wife of Ezra Gilliland (nicknamed Damon), who was Edison’s friend from his days as telegrapher and was at this time working with him on a form of wireless telegraph.
* Rose Hawthorne married George Parsons Lathrop, with whom Edison started to collaborate on a “Jules Verne” type of inventive prophecy. He therefore was well acquainted with her a few years after this diary was written.
* Dot was the nickname of Edison’s oldest daughter, Marion Edison, then 12 years old.
† Wm. Holzer, one of Edison’s Menlo Park associates who, having married Alice Stilwell (sister of Edison’s first wife), was living in the old Edison home at Menlo Park.
Menlo Park, N. J.
July 13, 1885
Woke (is there such a word?) at 6 o’clock. Slipped down the declivity of unconsciousness again until 7. Arose and tried to shave with a razor so dull that every time I scraped my face it looked as if I was in the throes of cholera morbus. By shaving often I, to a certain extent, circumvent the diabolical malignity of these razors. If I could get my mind down to details perhaps could learn to sharpen it, but on the other hand I might cut myself.
As I had to catch the 7.30 A.M. train for New York, I hurried breakfast, crowded meat, potatoes, eggs, coffee, tandem down into the chemical room of my body. I’ve now got dyspepsia in that diabolical thing that Carlyle calls the stomach. Rushed and caught train. Bought a New York World at Elizabeth for my mental breakfast. Among the million of perfected mortals on Manhattan Island two of them took it into their heads to cut their navel cord from mother earth and be born into a new world, while two other less developed; citizens stopped two of their neighbors from living. The details of these two little incidents conveyed to my mind what beautiful creatures we live among and how, with the aid of the police, civilization so rapidly advances.
Went to New. York via Desbrosses Street ferry. Tooks cars across town. Saw a woman get into car that was so tall and frightfully thin as well as dried up that my mechanical mind at once conceived the idea that it would be the proper thing to run a lancet into her arm and knee joints and insert automatic self-feeding oil cups to diminish the creaking when she walked.
Got off at Broadway. Tried experiment of walking two miles to our office—65 Fifth Avenue *—with idea it would alleviate my dsypeptic pains. It didn’t.
Went into Scribner & Sons on way up, saw about a thousand books I wanted. Right off Mind No. 1 said, Why not buy a box full and send to Boston now. Mind No. 2 (acquired and worldly mind) gave a most withering mental glance at Mind No. 1 and said, You fool, buy only two books. These you can carry without trouble and will last until you get to Boston. Buying books in New York to send to Boston is like “carrying coals to Newcastle.” Of course I took the advice of this earthly adviser. Bought Aldrich’s story of a bad boy, which is a spongecake kind of literature, very witty and charming, and a work on Goethe and Schiller by Boynsen, which is soggy literature. A little wit and anecdote in this style of literature would have the same effect as baking soda on bread—give pleasing results.
Waited one hour for the appearance of a lawyer who is to cross-examine me on events that occurred eleven years ago. Went on stand at 11.30. He handed me a piece of paper with some figures on it, not another mark. Asked in a childlike voice if these were my figures, what they were about and what day eleven years ago I made them. This implied compliment to the splendor of my memory was at first so pleasing to my vanity that I tried every means to trap my memory into stating just what he wanted—but then I thought what good is a compliment from a ten-cent lawyer, and I waived back my recollection. A lawsuit is the suicide of time.
Got through at 3.30 P.M. Waded through a lot of accumulated correspondence mostly relating to other people’s business. Insull saw Wiman about getting car for Railroad Telegh experiment. Will get costs in day or so. Tomlinson made Sammy mad by saying he (Insull) was valet to my intellect. Got $100. Met Dot and skipped for the Argosy of the Puritan Sea, i.e., Sound Steamboat. Dot is reading a novel—rather trashy. Love hash. I completed reading Aldrich’s Bad Boy and advanced fifty pages in Goethe, then retired to a “Sound” sleep.
* Office of the Edison Electric Light Company.
Woodside Villa
July 14, 1885
Dot introduced me to a new day at 5.30 A.M. Arose, toileted quickly, breakfasted, then went from boat to street car. Asked colored gentleman how long before car left. Worked his articulating apparatus so weakly I didn’t hear word he said. It’s nice to be a little deaf when traveling. You can ask everybody directions, then pump your imagination for the answer. It strengthens this faculty.
Took train leaving at 7 from Providence for the metropolis of culture. Arrived there 9 A.M. “Coupaid” it to Damon’s office. Waited three-quarters hour for his arrival, then left for the Chateau-sur-le-Mer. If I stay there much longer Mrs. G——will think me a bore. Perhaps she thinks I make only two visits each year in one place each of six months. Noticed there was no stewardess on the ferryboat. Strange omission considering the length of the voyage and the swell made by the tri-monthly boat to Nantucket. Man with a dusty railroad company expression let down a sort of portcullis and the passengers poured themselves out.
Arrived Winthrop Junction, found Patrick there according to telephone instruction, another evidence that the telephone works sometimes. Patrick had the Americanized dog cart and incidentally a horse. Suppose Patrick would have forgotten the horse, because last week he went into Boston to Damon’s city residence and turned on the gas and started up the motor from a state of innocence to the wildest pre-varication and forgot to turn gas off.
Arrived at Woodside Villa and was greeted by Mamma with a smile as sweet as a cherub that buzzed around the bedside of Raphael. A fresh invoice of innocence and beauty had arrived in my absence in the persons of Miss Louise Igoe,* and her aunt, like Miss Daisy, is from Indianapolis, that producer of Hoosier Venuses. Miss Igoe is a pronounced blonde, blue eyes, with a complexion as clear as the conscience of a baby angel, with hair like Andromache. Miss Igoe’s aunt is a bright elderly lady who beat me so bad at checkers that my bump of “Strategic combination” has sunk in about two inches.
For fear that Mrs. G—— might think I had an inexhaustible supply of dirty shirts, I put on one of those starched horrors procured for me by Tomlinson. Put my spongy mind at work on life Goethe. Chewed some Tulu gum presented me by Mrs. G——. Conceived the idea that the mastication of this chunk of illimitable plasticity—a dentiferous tread-mill so to speak—would act on the salivial glands to produce an excess of this necessary ingredient of the digestive fluid and thus a self-acting home-made remedy for dyspepsia would be obtained. Believe there is something in this as my dyspeptic pains are receding from recognition.
Dot is learning to play Lange’s “Blumenlied” on the piano. Miss Igoe, I learn from a desultory conversation, is involved in a correspondence with a brother of Miss Mina, who resides at Canton, Ohio, being connected with the mower and reaper firm of Aultman J. Miller. The letter received today being about as long as the bills at the Grand Hotel at Paris are, I surmise, of rather a serious character, cupidly speaking. The frequency of their reception will confirm or disaffirm my conjectures as to the proximity of a serious catastrophe. A postoffice courtship is a novelty to me, so I have resolved to follow up this matter for the experience which I will obtain. This may come handy should “my head ever become the dupe of my heart” as papa Rochefoucauld puts it.
In evening went out on sea wall. Noticed a strange phosphorescent light in the west, probably caused by a baby moon just going down Chinaward. Thought at first the Aurora Borealis had moved out west. Went to bed early, dreamed of a Demon with eyes ...