I&#x27;m not sure Thoreau is such a great example of an adult. As [1] argues<p><pre><code>  The real Thoreau was, in the fullest sense of the word, 
  self-obsessed: narcissistic, fanatical about 
  self-control, adamant that he required nothing beyond 
  himself to understand and thrive in the world.
  [..]
  “Walden” is less a cornerstone work of environmental 
  literature than the original cabin porn: a fantasy about 
  rustic life divorced from the reality of living in the 
  woods, and, especially, a fantasy about escaping the 
  entanglements and responsibilities of living among other 
  people.
</code></pre>
Much of which, as many here argue, is essential to &#x27;being an adult&#x27;.<p>[1] <a href="http:&#x2F;&#x2F;www.newyorker.com&#x2F;magazine&#x2F;2015&#x2F;10&#x2F;19&#x2F;pond-scum" rel="nofollow">http:&#x2F;&#x2F;www.newyorker.com&#x2F;magazine&#x2F;2015&#x2F;10&#x2F;19&#x2F;pond-scum</a>