The last several chapters had tended to highlight Thoreau's observational powers rather than being notably philosophical. Now, deciding to put a period on the book, he was faced with what must have been a daunting challenge in composition. What could he say in this chapter that he had not in the previous 17? He seemed to solve the problem by reaching farther than he had before, pulling out all the stops, speaking "extra vagantly" in a way that strained the limits of the language. He doesn't care if his speech defies understanding by common sense; he wanted to be understood by uncommon sense. Why should we insist on but one interpretation, anyway? Why cannot there be many?
One problem, today as then, with following this path is that censure is difficult for most people to take; we want to be essentially in conformance, and may stand apart in harmless ways such as our clothing fashions or musical taste, but we don't want to be marked as abnormal or odd. Society and even Mental Health might be ready to label us if we insist on "obedience to the laws of [our] being."
I suppose there were quotidian reasons, as well, for why he left the woods. But he has rarely mentioned such uninteresting and minute details (such as his privy) in the book, so why should he now. It's almost as though he realized the best way to write a classic was to exclude all that chaff and just give us the full grain.
He tries to put his own stamp on an Eastern type of philosophy, packaging it for his American audience.
This he might be saying to all of us modern dilletantes, thinking we need to be conversant with so many subjects or skills.
Threre is much, much more that could be said about this climactic chapter. Almost all of it could be quoted.