Sam Anderson

And Jules, driven mad by grief, moved to America, where he stitched himself this suit of leather scraps and walked alone in circles for the rest of his life. It was a real potboiler, a simmering stew of classic 19th century anxieties, class, economic bubbles, madness, immigration. And yet, people believed it. Eventually, the name Jules Bourglet would appear on the old leatherman's gravestone.

And Jules, driven mad by grief, moved to America, where he stitched himself this suit of leather scraps and walked alone in circles for the rest of his life. It was a real potboiler, a simmering stew of classic 19th century anxieties, class, economic bubbles, madness, immigration. And yet, people believed it. Eventually, the name Jules Bourglet would appear on the old leatherman's gravestone.

In the meantime, year after year, namelessly trailing this ever-expanding cloud of stories, the old leatherman continued to walk. Today, the old leatherman is one of those stories that you either really deeply know or have never heard of at all. I discovered it by accident 14 years ago.

In the meantime, year after year, namelessly trailing this ever-expanding cloud of stories, the old leatherman continued to walk. Today, the old leatherman is one of those stories that you either really deeply know or have never heard of at all. I discovered it by accident 14 years ago.

I was having a perfectly normal day, minding my own business, reading a book about local caves, when suddenly this absolute molten chunk of American lore leaped out of the pages and installed himself in my brain. The old leather man hit me with an almost religious force. He was a perfect little parable about something both universal and, to me, very personal.

I was having a perfectly normal day, minding my own business, reading a book about local caves, when suddenly this absolute molten chunk of American lore leaped out of the pages and installed himself in my brain. The old leather man hit me with an almost religious force. He was a perfect little parable about something both universal and, to me, very personal.

The tension between alienation and belonging. Rejection and rejecting. Who gets to belong to a group? What are the smallest possible triggers for inclusion or exclusion? And what happens when someone flips that dynamic, when the individual is the one rejecting the group, rejecting, in fact, the whole society, but also refusing to go away?

The tension between alienation and belonging. Rejection and rejecting. Who gets to belong to a group? What are the smallest possible triggers for inclusion or exclusion? And what happens when someone flips that dynamic, when the individual is the one rejecting the group, rejecting, in fact, the whole society, but also refusing to go away?

To the people in my life, friends, family, editors, my infatuation with the old leather man quickly became a running joke. More than once, my wife has banned me from discussing him in our house. I've had out-of-body experiences where I've watched myself droning on, unable to stop, making acquaintances late for trains. But what was I supposed to do?

To the people in my life, friends, family, editors, my infatuation with the old leather man quickly became a running joke. More than once, my wife has banned me from discussing him in our house. I've had out-of-body experiences where I've watched myself droning on, unable to stop, making acquaintances late for trains. But what was I supposed to do?

He struck me as a perfect existentialist hero, someone who spurned the false comforts of society, who stood by choice out in the cold, harsh wind of reality, taking it full blast in the face. The old Leatherman was like Melville's Bartleby the Scrivener, except that he refused to even say, I would prefer not to. This guy, I thought, had it all figured out.

He struck me as a perfect existentialist hero, someone who spurned the false comforts of society, who stood by choice out in the cold, harsh wind of reality, taking it full blast in the face. The old Leatherman was like Melville's Bartleby the Scrivener, except that he refused to even say, I would prefer not to. This guy, I thought, had it all figured out.

He managed to remain a part of things while holding himself apart. In my private fantasy of myself, I was a spiritual descendant of the old Leatherman. I too felt alienated from society. The world annoyed me, enraged me in 10 million different ways. I spent my childhood pinging between Oregon and California, between apartments and houses, between step-parents.

He managed to remain a part of things while holding himself apart. In my private fantasy of myself, I was a spiritual descendant of the old Leatherman. I too felt alienated from society. The world annoyed me, enraged me in 10 million different ways. I spent my childhood pinging between Oregon and California, between apartments and houses, between step-parents.

I've always been odd, anxious, introverted. I sometimes burst into tears at strange moments. Lately, I've found myself thinking more and more of the old Leatherman. The 21st century, unfortunately, turns out to be the perfect moment to be obsessed with his story. America keeps spasming with increasing violence in many of the same ways it spasmed in the 1800s.

I've always been odd, anxious, introverted. I sometimes burst into tears at strange moments. Lately, I've found myself thinking more and more of the old Leatherman. The 21st century, unfortunately, turns out to be the perfect moment to be obsessed with his story. America keeps spasming with increasing violence in many of the same ways it spasmed in the 1800s.

The old Leatherman looped his loops during an era of assassination, insurrection, civil war, impeachment, economic collapse, and racial terror. He walked during the rise of Reconstruction and the crimes of so-called redemption. All around him, the landscape was being transformed. Forests fell, church spires climbed, downtowns burned and rose again.

The old Leatherman looped his loops during an era of assassination, insurrection, civil war, impeachment, economic collapse, and racial terror. He walked during the rise of Reconstruction and the crimes of so-called redemption. All around him, the landscape was being transformed. Forests fell, church spires climbed, downtowns burned and rose again.

He watched farms die and railroads boom and aqueducts stretch between cities. We have no idea what the old Leatherman thought of any of this, or if he thought of it at all. And that is exactly the point. All we know is that he kept walking.

He watched farms die and railroads boom and aqueducts stretch between cities. We have no idea what the old Leatherman thought of any of this, or if he thought of it at all. And that is exactly the point. All we know is that he kept walking.