Having been asked questions about Towards Democracy, I will try to shape a few thoughts. I gave up my lecturing for open air life and manual work on a farm. In the garden, fields and woods that spring and summer and on through winter, by day and night, sunlight or rain, frost or snow and all sorts of dull weather, I wrote Towards Democracy. There is a region of consciousness removed beyond what we usually call mortality, into which we humans can yet pass, I practically do not doubt; but granting that this is a fact, its explanation still remains for investigation. Carpenter himself, loosely compares this work to Leaves of Grass.