Mute Objects of Expression (17 page)

Generally speaking, what is a forest? Both a monument and a
society. (As a tree is both a being and a statue.) A living monument and an architectural society. But are trees social beings? Note that some trees are more predisposed than others to live in society. By the weight of their seeds, therefore minimally transportable by the wind and destined to fall at the foot of the father or not far off. Such as notably the pine cone, the acorn, all the trees with heavy fruit: apple, orange, pear, lemon, apricot, almond, date, and olive trees.

Others are disposed through the enormous quantities of flowers, hence of seeds, so that inevitably a certain number stay at the foot: I'm thinking of acacias.

The trees with small berries tend less toward this because clearly it is birds that are charged with their dissemination: cherry, service berry, etc.

Others are visibly predisposed to a more or less solitary life by the indubitably Aeolian nature of their seeds: notably the maples (coupled).

So, as far as our pine is concerned, it is probably a social tree by nature. How far is the seed propelled at the moment when the pine cone opens (does it burst abruptly like the pods of its cousin the broom)? Has anyone even measured this distance? How does this affect the pine as a social tree? Would we speak about its rights and obligations? Why not? Obligations: that of limiting its freedom of outgrowth to that of its neighbors; it is in fact forced by them to do
just that, and the force of an individual doesn't seem to count for much here, though its age evidently does so to a great extent: there is a priority conferred by age, etc.

 

With the pine, there is an abolition of their successive expansions (particularly with the woods pine), which fortunately corrects, annuls, the customary curse of vegetation: having to live eternally with the weight of each action taken from childhood on. For this tree more than others, it is permissible for it to separate itself from earlier expansions. It has permission to forget. It's true that the subsequent developments bear strong resemblance to the former cast-offs. But that doesn't make a particle of difference. The joy lies in clearing out and beginning again. And besides, this keeps happening at a higher level. It seems that something has been gained.

 

torted themselves to a fare-thee-well out of despair or boredom (or ecstasy), which would have supported the whole weight of their actions, which would finally have constituted some very beautiful
statues of sorrowful heroes. But their combined mass delivered them from the vegetal malediction. They have an ability to do away with their first expressions, permission to forget.

(The subjection of the parts to the whole. Yes, but when each part is a being, an individual: tree, animal [man], or word, or sentence or chapter – then it turns dramatic!)

The mass also protects them from the wind, the cold.

Alone, it would have been all or nothing, or perhaps one after the other in succession: perfect development up to a point – or atrophy of growth due to contrary elements.

In society outgrowth is normalized, in addition to which it creates something else:
wood.

Some might have thought that the optimal solution would be to raise the young pines in nurseries, then – actually without sacrificing a single one – transplanting them from one place to another so that each could have a full chance to expand.

Meantime they'd have to have been kept together long enough to have acquired strong, straight trunks.

But at that point there arises a question of paramount importance.

Whereas up in the air, pine branches respect one another mutually, keep their distance, not intermingling viciously (now this is actually something rather strange, rather remarkable), do the same rules apply underground, for their roots? Would it be possible to
disentangle a forest at its base without dangerously amputating each individual? Who knows? Who'd like to give me an answer? This will be necessary for my further research . . .

Words Looked Up After the Fact in the
Littré:

Branches:
arms (Celtic).

Branchu.
Branched: of many branches. A branched idea is one that offers two possibilities, two ramifications. “Do you believe that this idea, double-branched and equally awful in both directions . . .”
(Saint-Simon)

Halle.
Pavilion: 1. a large public place, generally covered; 2. a building open on all sides.
Etymology: Halla,
temple (German). There seems to have been confusion in Old French between
halle
and the Latin
aula
(courtyard).

Hallier.
Thicket: copse, a very dense clump of shrubs (Buffon says: an area formerly cleared which are covered only with low scrub). Low Latin:
hasla:
branch.

Hangar.
Shed: garage open on various sides and intended for storage of tools. From
angaros:
messenger (
angel,
Persian). Places where messengers (or angels!) would pause.

Fournilles.
Brushwood: small branches and twigs left from cutting underbrush or saplings and useful for warming ovens (
fours).

Gaulis:
branches from underbrush left to grow. Branches that stop hunters running through heavy thickets.

Touffe.
Tuft.
Touffu.
Tufted: checked.

Cimes.
Treetops: from
cuma,
tender shoot, from χδω: to be swollen by what is engendered (sprout).

Peignoir:
yes, robe put on to comb one's hair
(se peigner).

Taché.
Stained: checked.

Entaché.
Splashed: can be taken in a favorable sense, given that
taché
can be used as a mark of good qualities.

Pénombre
. Shadow; astronomical term.

Bois
. Wood: 1. that which lies under the bark of a tree; 2. a cluster of trees.

Forêt
. Forest: from
foresta
, territory forbidden (foreign) to agriculture.

Futaie:
forest of full-grown trees (see below).
Futaie
is opposed to
taillis
, brushwood. A term used in Old French:
clères futaies
.

Taillis:
checked.

Pin
. Pine, nothing special.
La pigne
, pine-nut, or
pistache
, pistachio.
Pignon
. Pine seed.

Conifère
. Conifer: yes, checked: which bears fruit in the form of cones.

Lisière
. Selvage: edge of field or forest; from
liste
, border.

Orée
. Fringe: skirt of woods (becoming obsolete).

Expansion:
from
expandere:
a spreading out, outpouring, deployment.

Vitrage
. Glasswork: checked.

Vitrail
. Stained glass, leaded glass window: checked.

Rideaux
. Curtains: checked.

Chicane
. Chicanery: checked.

Branchie
. Gills: no, doesn't have the same etymology as branches.

Rectifier
. To rectify: checked.

Conidie
. Conidium: fungus, dust covering lichen, from χονις.

Préau
. Yard: completely incorrect, comes from
pré
, meadow. Would be right for the clearing and not for the woods.

Thalle
. Thallus: checked.

Orseille
. Dyer's moss: variety of lichen, from the name of the classifier.

A wood of 40 years is known as
futaie sur taillis

 

And so, this little opuscule is only (barely) “timber over underbrush.”

 

END OF THE PINE WOODS FROM THIS POINT ON WE'RE OUT IN THE OPEN COUNTRY

 

“What I might like to read”: that could be the title, the definition, of what I'll write.

Deprived of all reading material for several weeks and months, I'm beginning to feel like reading.

Well then! It's what I'd like to read that I'll have to write (in fact, enough of this . . .).

But on probing my inner self a bit more attentively, I find it's not only reading that I'm wanting, but also painting and music (though less). So I must write in a way that will satisfy this amalgam of needs.

 

I'll have to keep this image constantly in mind: my book, alone (perforce), on a table: that I'd like to open it and read (a few pages only) – and get back to it the following day.

 

What a lot of things I'd have to write about if I were a simple writer . . . and perhaps I should.

The account of that long month of adventures, from the day I left Rouen till the end of the exodus and my arrival at Le Chambon; today (for instance), relating my conversation with Jacques Babut; of my daily walks and meditations, or of other conversations similar or different; the depiction of people around me, who cross my path and to whom for whatever reason I have lent an ear; my reflections on the political situation in France and the world at such an important moment in history; on our own situation, our uncertainty about the morrow . . .