{"product_id":"the-stranger-in-the-woods-isbn-9781101911532","title":"The Stranger in the Woods","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eNEW YORK TIMES\u003c\/i\u003e BESTSELLER • The remarkable true story of a man who lived alone in the woods of Maine for 27 years, making this dream a reality—not out of anger at the world, but simply because he preferred to live on his own.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A meditation on solitude, wildness and survival.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Wall Street Journal\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eIn 1986, a shy and intelligent twenty-year-old named Christopher Knight left his home in Massachusetts, drove to Maine, and disappeared into the forest. He would not have a conversation with another human being until nearly three decades later, when he was arrested for stealing food. Living in a tent even through brutal winters, he had survived by his wits and courage, developing ingenious ways to store edibles and water, and to avoid freezing to death. He broke into nearby cottages for food, clothing, reading material, and other provisions, taking only what he needed but terrifying a community never able to solve the mysterious burglaries. Based on extensive interviews with Knight himself, this is a vividly detailed account of his secluded life—why did he leave? what did he learn?—as well as the challenges he has faced since returning to the world. It is a gripping story of survival that asks fundamental questions about solitude, community, and what makes a good life, and a deeply moving portrait of a man who was determined to live his own way, and succeeded.“A meditation on solitude, wildness and survival.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Wall Street Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Astonishing. . . . An absorbing exploration of solitude and man’s eroding relationship with the natural world.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Atlantic \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Campfire-friendly and thermos-ready, easily drained in one warm, rummy slug. It also raises a variety of profound questions—about the role of solitude, about the value of suffering, about the diversity of human needs.” —\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “[A] fascinating story. . . . Finkel manages to pry powerful words from the man who may hold the world title for silent retreat.” —\u003ci\u003eSan Francisco Chronicle\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Reveals, in vivid detail, how Christopher Knight escaped society more completely than most anybody else in human history.” —\u003ci\u003eOutside\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “[An] intriguing account of Knight’s capture and confessions.” —\u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A story that takes the two primary human relationships—to nature and to one another—and deftly upends our assumptions about both. This was a breathtaking book to read and many weeks later I am still thinking about the implications for our society and—by extension—for my own life.” —Sebastian Junger, author of \u003ci\u003eTribe: On Homecoming and Belonging \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “As strong as Finkel’s storytelling instincts and prose are, his greatest feat in writing \u003ci\u003eThe Stranger in the Woods\u003c\/i\u003e is the journalistic diligence and humanity he brought to Knight. . . . Through Finkel, Knight is able to speak up with his own voice at last.” —\u003ci\u003ePaste\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “[Knight’s] story will speak to anyone who has ever walked through the wilderness and considered, even for a moment, whether ever to leave.” —\u003ci\u003eField \u0026amp; Stream\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Moving and haunting. . . . A beautifully rendered, carefully researched story.” —\u003ci\u003ePopMatters\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  “Riveting. . . . A stunning look inside at the life and inner thoughts of one of our era’s most confounding characters.” —\u003ci\u003eBangor Daily News\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Thought-provoking and enduring . . . Will leave readers thinking deeply about modern society, the search for meaning, and the impact of solitude. Finkel is a skilled storyteller.” —\u003ci\u003ePortland Press Herald\u003c\/i\u003e (Maine) \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I was drawn through these pages in a single sitting—their pull is true and magnetic. . . . [Knight’s] tale becomes universal thanks to the expert care of Finkel’s writing. . . \u003ci\u003eThe Stranger in the Woods \u003c\/i\u003eis, ultimately, a meditation on the pains of social obligation and the longing toward retreat that resides in us all.” —Michael Harris, \u003ci\u003eThe Globe and Mail\u003c\/i\u003e (Toronto)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Michael Finkel has done something magical with this profound book . . . [His] investigation runs deep, summoning . . . the human history of our own attempts to find meaning in a noisy world.” —Michael Paterniti, author of \u003ci\u003eDriving Mr. Albert: A Trip Across America with Einstein’s Brain\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Chris Knight is an American original . . . I burned through this haunting tale in one rapt sitting.” —John Vaillant, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Golden Spruce: A True Story of Myth, Madness, and Greed\u003c\/i\u003eMichael Finkel is the author of \u003ci\u003eTrue Story: Murder, Memoir, Mea Culpa, \u003c\/i\u003ewhich was adapted into a 2015 major motion picture. He has written for \u003ci\u003eNational Geographic, GQ, Rolling Stone, Esquire, Vanity Fair, The Atlantic, \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Magazine. \u003c\/i\u003eHe lives in western Montana.\u003cb\u003eChapter 16\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKnight lived in the dirt but was cleaner than you. Way cleaner. Pine needles and mud don’t make you dirty, except superficially. The muck that matters, the bad bacteria, the evil virus, is typically passed through coughs and sneezes and handshakes and kisses. The price of sociability is sometimes our health. Knight quarantined himself from the human race and thus avoided our biohazards. He stayed phenomenally healthy. Though he suffered deeply at times, he insists he never once had a medical emergency, or a serious illness, or a bad accident, or even a cold.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDuring the summers, especially in the early years, he was strong, fit, and spry. “You should have seen me in my twenties—I ruled the land I walked upon, it was mine,” Knight said, exposing the prideful streak that runs below his surface of contrition. “Why shouldn’t I claim it as my own? No one else was there. I was in control. I controlled it as much as I wanted. I was lord of the woods.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePoison ivy grows throughout the area; its prevalence prevented some people from searching for his site. Knight kept a little jingle in his head—“leaves of three, let it be”—and so ably memorized where each patch grew that even at night he didn’t brush against it. He says he was never once afflicted.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLyme disease, a bacterial illness transmitted through tick bites that can cause partial paralysis, is endemic to central Maine, but Knight was spared that as well. He brooded about Lyme for a while, then came to a realization: “I couldn’t do anything about it, so I stopped thinking about it.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLiving in the woods, subject to the whims of nature, offers a great deal of autonomy but not much control. At first, Knight worried about everything: snowstorms might bury him, hikers could find him, the police would capture him. Gradually, methodically, he shed most of his anxiety.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut not all. Being too relaxed, he felt, was also a danger. In appropriate doses, worry was useful, possibly lifesaving. “I used worry to encourage thought,” he said. “Worry can give you an extra prod to survive and plan. And I had to plan.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt the conclusion of each thieving mission, he was absolved temporarily of worry. The order in which he ate his food was governed by the pace of spoilage, ground beef to Twinkies. When he was down to little more than flour and shortening, he’d mix those together with water and make biscuits. He never stole homemade meals or unwrapped items, for fear someone might poison him, so everything he took came sealed in a carton or can. He ate every morsel, scraping the containers clean. Then he deposited the wrappers and cartons in his camp’s dump, stuffed between boulders at the boundary of his site.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe dump was scattered over an area of about a hundred square feet. One section was devoted to items like propane tanks and old mattresses and sleeping bags and books, another to food containers. Even in the food area, there was no odor. Knight added layers of dirt and leaves to aid with composting, which eliminated any smell, but most of the packaging was waxed cardboard or plastic, slow to disintegrate. Upon excavation, the colors on many boxes remained garish, superlatives and exclamation points and rococo typography popping from the soil while robins chirped in the branches above.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe archeological record contained in his dump revealed why Knight’s only significant health issue was his teeth. He brushed regularly, he stole toothpaste, but did not see a dentist and his teeth began to rot. It didn’t help that his culinary preferences never progressed beyond the sugar-and-processedfood palate of a teenager. “ ‘Cooking’ is too kind a word for what I did,” he said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA staple meal was macaroni and cheese. Dozens of macand-cheese boxes were buried between the rocks, along with several empty spice bottles—black pepper, garlic powder, hot sauce, blackened seasoning. Often, when Knight was inside a cabin with a good spice rack, he would grab a new bottle and try it out on his macaroni and cheese.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAlso in his dump was a flattened thirty-ounce container from cheddar-flavored Goldfish crackers, a five-pound tub from Marshmallow Fluff, and a box that had held sixteen Drake’s Devil Dogs. There were packages from graham crackers, tater tots, baked beans, shredded cheese, hot dogs, maple syrup, chocolate bars, cookie dough. Betty Crocker scalloped potatoes and Tyson chicken strips. Country Time lemonade and Mountain Dew. El Monterey spicy jalapeño and cheese chimichangas.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAll of this came from a single kitchen-sink-sized hole, dug out by hand. Knight had fled the modern world only to live off the fat of it. The food, Knight pointed out, wasn’t exactly his choice. It was first selected by the cabin owners of North Pond, then snatched by him. He did steal a little money, an average of fifteen dollars a year—“a backup system,” he called it—and lived an hour’s walk from the Sweet Dreams convenience store and deli, but never went there. The last time he ate at a restaurant, or even sat at a table, was at some fast-food place during his final road trip.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe stole frozen lasagna, canned ravioli, and Thousand Island dressing. You can dig in the dump until you’re lying on your side, arm buried to the shoulder, and more keeps emerging. Cheetos and bratwurst and pudding and pickles. Quarry a trench deep enough to fight a war from—Crystal Light, Cool Whip, Chock full o’Nuts, Coke—and you still won’t reach bottom.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo he wasn’t a gourmet. He didn’t care what he ate. “The discipline I practiced in order to survive did away with cravings for specific food. As long as it was food, it was good enough.” He spent no more than a few minutes preparing meals, yet he often passed the fortnight between raids without leaving camp, filling much of the time with chores, camp maintenance, hygiene, and entertainment.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis chief form of entertainment was reading. The last moments he was in a cabin were usually spent scanning bookshelves and nightstands. The life inside a book always felt welcoming to Knight. It pressed no demands on him, while the world of actual human interactions was so complex. Conversations between people can move like tennis games, swift and unpredictable. There are constant subtle visual and verbal cues, there’s innuendo, sarcasm, body language, tone. Everyone occasionally fumbles an encounter, a victim of social clumsiness. It’s part of being human.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo Knight, it all felt impossible. His engagement with the written word might have been the closest he could come to genuine human encounters. The stretch of days between thieving raids allowed him to tumble into the pages, and if he felt transported he could float in bookworld, undisturbed, for as long as he pleased.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe reading selection offered by the cabins was often dispiriting. With books, Knight did have specific desires and cravings—in some ways, reading material was more important to him than food—though when he was famished for words, he’d subsist on whatever the nightstands bestowed, highbrow or low.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe liked Shakespeare,\u003ci\u003e Julius Caesar\u003c\/i\u003e especially, that litany of betrayal and violence. He marveled at the poetry of Emily Dickinson, sensing her kindred spirit. For the last seventeen years of her life, Dickinson rarely left her home in Massachusetts and spoke to visitors only through a partly closed door. “Saying nothing,” she wrote, “sometimes says the most.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKnight wished he’d been able to procure more poetry written by Edna St. Vincent Millay, a fellow native of Maine, born in the coastal village of Rockland in 1892. He quoted her bestknown lines—“My candle burns at both ends \/ It will not last the night”—and then added, “I tried candles in my camp for a number of years. Not worth it to steal them.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIf he were forced to select a favorite book, it might be \u003ci\u003eThe Rise and Fall of the Third Reich\u003c\/i\u003e, by William Shirer. “It’s concise,” Knight said, a quick twelve hundred pages, “and impressive as any novel.” He stole every book on military history he saw\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe pilfered a copy of \u003ci\u003eUlysses\u003c\/i\u003e, but it was possibly the one book he did not finish. “What’s the point of it? I suspect it was a bit of a joke by Joyce. He just kept his mouth shut as people read into it more than there was. Pseudo-intellectuals love to drop the name \u003ci\u003eUlysses \u003c\/i\u003eas their favorite book. I refused to be intellectually bullied into finishing it.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKnight’s disdain for Thoreau was bottomless—“he had no deep insight into nature”—but Ralph Waldo Emerson was acceptable. “People are to be taken in very small doses,” wrote Emerson. “Nothing can bring you peace but yourself.” Knight read the \u003ci\u003eTao Te Ching\u003c\/i\u003e and felt a deep-rooted connection to the verses. “Good walking,” says the \u003ci\u003eTao\u003c\/i\u003e, “leaves no tracks.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRobert Frost received a thumbs-down—“I’m glad his reputation is starting to fade”—and Knight said that when he ran out of toilet paper, he sometimes tore pages from John Grisham novels. He mentioned that he didn’t like Jack Kerouac either, but this wasn’t quite true. “I don’t like people who like Jack Kerouac,” he clarified.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKnight stole portable radios and earbuds and tuned in daily, voices through the waves another kind of human presence. For a while he was fascinated by talk radio. He listened to a lot of Rush Limbaugh. “I didn’t say I liked him. I said I listened to him.” Knight’s own politics were “conservative but not Republican.” He added, perhaps unnecessarily, “I’m kind of an isolationist.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLater he got hooked on classical music—Brahms and Tchaikovsky, yes; Bach, no. “Bach is too pristine,” he said. Bliss for him was Tchaikovsky’s\u003ci\u003e The Queen of Spades\u003c\/i\u003e. But his undying passion was classic rock: the Who, AC\/DC, Judas Priest, Led Zeppelin, Deep Purple, and, above all, Lynyrd Skynyrd. Nothing in all the world received higher praise from Knight than Lynyrd Skynyrd. “They will be playing Lynyrd Skynyrd songs in a thousand years,” he proclaimed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn one raid he stole a Panasonic black-and-white fiveinch-diagonal television. This was why he needed so many car and boat batteries—to power the TV. Knight was adept at wiring batteries together, in series and parallel. He also carried off an antenna and hid it high in his treetops.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe said that everything shown on PBS was “carefully crafted for liberal baby boomers with college degrees,” but the best thing he watched while in the woods was a PBS program, Ken Burns’s documentary \u003ci\u003eThe Civil War\u003c\/i\u003e. He was able to recite parts of the show verbatim. “I still remember Sullivan Ballou’s letter to his wife,” said Knight. “It brought tears to my eyes.” Ballou, a major in the Union army, wrote to Sarah on July 14, 1861, and was killed at the First Battle of Bull Run before the letter was delivered. The note spoke of “unbounded love” for his children, and Ballou said his heart was attached to his wife’s “with mighty cables that nothing but Omnipotence could break”—an expression of human connection that made Knight weep, even if he wasn’t compelled to seek it himself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKnight was aware of world events and politics, but he seldom had any reaction. Everything seemed to be happening far away. He burned through all his batteries after September 11, 2001, and never watched television again. “Car batteries were so heavy and difficult to steal anyway,” he said. He repurposed the ones he had as anchor weights for guylines, and after he stole a radio that received television audio signals, he switched to listening to TV stations on the radio; “theater of the mind,” he called it. \u003ci\u003eSeinfeld \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eEverybody Loves Raymond\u003c\/i\u003e were his television-on-the-radio favorites.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I do have a sense of humor,” Knight said. “I just don’t like jokes. Freud said there’s no such thing as a joke—a joke is an expression of veiled hostility.” His favorite comedians were the Marx Brothers, the Three Stooges, and George Carlin. The last movie he saw in a theater was the 1984 comedy \u003ci\u003eGhostbusters\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe never bothered listening to sports; they bored him, every one of them. For news, there were five-minute updates at the top of the hour on WTOS, the Mountain of Pure Rock, out of Augusta. Also, he said, he sometimes listened to French news stations out of Quebec. He didn’t speak French, but he understood most of it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe liked handheld video games. His rule for stealing them was that they had to appear outdated; he didn’t want to take a kid’s new one. He’d be stealing those in a couple years anyway. He enjoyed Pokémon, Tetris, and Dig Dug. “I like games that require thought and strategy. No shoot-’em-ups. No mindless repetitive motion.” Electronic Sudoku was great, and crossword puzzles in magazines were welcome challenges, but he never took a deck of cards to play solitaire, and he doesn’t like chess. “Chess is too two-dimensional, too finite of a game.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe didn’t create any sort of art—“I’m not that type of person”—nor did he spend any nights away from his camp. “I have no desire to travel. I read. That’s my form of travel.” He never even glimpsed Maine’s celebrated coastline. He claimed that he did not speak to himself aloud, not a word. “Oh, you mean like typical hermit behavior, huh? No, never.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNot for a moment did he consider keeping a journal. He would never allow anyone to read his private thoughts; therefore, he did not risk writing them down. “I’d rather take it to my grave,” he said. And anyway, when was a journal ever honest? “It either tells a lot of truths to cover a single lie,” he said, “or a lot of lies to cover a single truth.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKnight’s ability to hold a grudge was impressive. Though many \u003ci\u003eNational Geographic\u003c\/i\u003e magazines were buried beneath his tent, he despised the publication. “I didn’t even like stealing them,” he said. “I only looked at them when I was desperate. They’re really only good for burying in the dirt. That glossy paper lasts a long time.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis aversion to \u003ci\u003eNational Geographic\u003c\/i\u003e extends back to his youth. When Knight was in high school, he was reading a copy and came across a photo of a young Peruvian shepherd standing beside a road, crying. Behind him were several dead sheep, struck by a car as the boy had been trying to guide them. The photograph was later reprinted in a book of \u003ci\u003eNational Geographic\u003c\/i\u003e’s all-time greatest portraits.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt incensed Knight. “They published a photo of the boy’s humiliation. He had failed his family, who had entrusted him with the herd. It’s disgusting that everybody can see a little boy’s failure.” Knight, still furious about the image thirty years later, was a man acutely attuned to the ravages of shame. Had he done something shameful before he’d fled to the forest? He insisted that he had not.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKnight had a strong distaste for big cities, filled with helpless intellectuals, people with multiple degrees who couldn’t change a car’s oil. But, he added, it wasn’t as if rural areas were Valhalla. “Don’t glorify the country,” he said, then tossed off a line from the first chapter of \u003ci\u003eThe Communist Manifesto\u003c\/i\u003e about escaping “the idiocy of rural life.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe acknowledged, forthrightly, that a couple of cabins were enticing because of their subscriptions to \u003ci\u003ePlayboy\u003c\/i\u003e. He was curious. He was only twenty years old when he disappeared, and had never been out on a date. He imagined that finding love was something like fishing. “Once I was in the woods, I had no contact, so there was no baited hook for me to bite upon. I’m a big fish uncaught.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOne book that Knight never buried in his dump or packed away in a plastic tote—he kept it with him in his tent—was \u003ci\u003eVery Special People\u003c\/i\u003e, a collection of brief biographies of human oddities: the Elephant Man, General Tom Thumb, the DogFaced Boy, the Siamese twins Chang and Eng, and hundreds of sideshow performers. Knight himself often felt that he was something of circus freak, at least on the inside.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“If you’re born a human oddity,” says the introductory chapter of \u003ci\u003eVery Special People\u003c\/i\u003e, “every day of your life, starting in infancy, you are made aware that you are not as others are.” When you get older, it continues, things are likely to get worse. “You may hide from the world,” advises the book, “to avoid the punishment it inflicts on those who differ from the rest in mind or body.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere was one novel above all others, Knight said, that sparked in him the rare and unnerving sensation that the writer was reaching through time and speaking directly to him: Dostoyevsky’s \u003ci\u003eNotes from the Underground\u003c\/i\u003e. “I recognize myself in the main character,” he said, referring to the angry and misanthropic narrator, who has lived apart from all others for about twenty years. The book’s opening lines are: “I am a sick man. I am a spiteful man. I am an unattractive man.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKnight also expressed no shortage of self-loathing, but it was offset by a fierce pride, as well as an occasional trace of superiority. So, too, with the unnamed narrator of \u003ci\u003eUnderground\u003c\/i\u003e. On the final page of the book, the narrator drops all humbleness and says what he feels: “I have only in my life carried to an extreme what you have not dared to carry halfway, and what’s more, you have taken your cowardice for good sense, and have found comfort in deceiving yourselves. So that perhaps, after all, there is more life in me than in you.”","brand":"Vintage","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300628156645,"sku":"NP9781101911532","price":18.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781101911532.jpg?v=1767741698","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-stranger-in-the-woods-isbn-9781101911532","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}