Mute Objects of Expression (11 page)

They're marvelous, these jade carpets, in this terrain where it would seem that all vegetal interest had been withdrawn, where all low branches had fallen dead en masse.

Isn't the pine the tree that makes the most dead wood? That abandons the greatest number of its limbs, the greater part of itself, that loses interest in itself most totally, withdrawing all sap for the sole advantage of the peak (the green cone)? Whence this odor of sanctity that pervades the vicinity of the trunks . . .

It flares up only at the very peak: somewhat like a candle.

It's a powerfully aromatic tree, and not only through its flower.

 

It very gently relegates to great heights the effects of wind, of birds and even butterflies. And the vibrant concert of myriad insects.

Senile in appearance, hoary as the beards of aged Africans.

It's very pleasant underneath all of this, while at the peaks something very gently swaying and musical takes place, very gently vibrating.

Through all this outgrowth (shedding as they go, but no matter) the shaft of the pine must persist and be perceived.

Like masts from base to midway up
All crinkled, lichen-cloaked like an elderly Creole,
With no constraint of lianas or cords between them.

That wind sifts through, that filter the light . . .
Not sails spread taut, but densely packed fruit
Like pineapples . . .

 

No!

I decidedly must turn back
to the pleasure of the pine woods
.

What is it made of, this pleasure? – Primarily, this: the pine woods is
a chamber in nature,
made from trees all belonging to one clearly defined species; a well-delimited space, generally quite deserted, where one finds shelter from the sun, from the wind, from
visibility; but not absolute shelter, not in isolation. No. It is a relative shelter. Shelter that's not secretive, not stealthy, a noble shelter.

It's also a place (this is particular to
pine
woods) where one can roam about at ease, without underbrush, without branches grazing the head, where one can stretch out on dry ground, not spongy, quite comfortably.

Each pine wood is like a natural sanatorium, also a music hall . . . a chamber, a vast cathedral for meditation (fortunately a cathedral without a pulpit) open to all winds, but through so many doors it's as though they were closed. For winds hesitate before them.

Oh respectable columns, senile masts!

Aged columns, temple of caducity.

Nothing whimsical but such salubrious comfort, such tempering of the elements, such a music chamber discreetly scented, discreetly adorned, set up for serious strolling and meditation.

Everything is set up without excess, for leaving man to his own devices. Vegetation and animation relegated to the heights.
Nothing to distract the eyes. Everything to lull him to sleep, with this proliferation of similar columns. No anecdotes. Everything here discourages curiosity. But all of this almost unintentionally, and
in the midst of nature,
with no clear separation, no deliberate isolation, with no sweeping gestures, nothing that jars.

Here and there, a solitary rock further deepens the quality of this solitude, compelling gravity.