August 12, 1940
An infinity of partitions and baffles make pine woods into one of nature’s spaces best arranged for humanity’s ease and meditation.
Not a leaf stirs. But to wind and light in equal measure so many fine needles are subjected that a tempering occurs and something close to complete defeat, a dimming of the offending qualities in these elements, and an emanation of potent scents. The light, even the wind itself, are sifted here, are filtered, restrained, made benign and truly inoffensive. While the bases of the trunks remain perfectly immobile, the peaks are swayed . . .
August 12, 1940 – Evening
The pine woods are also a sort of shed, built like a shed, an arcade, or a market pavilion.
Senile masts coiffed with conical verdant toupees. Apropos of toupees, firs are dark green spinning tops (but that’s another story).
Market pavilion of aromatic needles, of vegetal hairpins, auditorium of myriad insects, temple of caducity (caducity of branches and bristles) whose upper tiers – auditorium – a solarium of myriad insects – are supported by a forest of completely crinkled senile masts, lichen-cloaked like elderly Creoles . . .
Slow production of wood, of masts, of posts, of perches, beams.
Leafless forest, aromatic as the comb of a redhead.
Am I living, an insect, in the brush or fragrant comb of a giantess . . . ?
. . . A forest whose topknots shed.
If leaves are like feathers, pine needles are more like bristles.
Bristles hard as teeth of a comb.
Bristles of a brush but hard as teeth of a comb.
Am I living amidst the brushery (brush, comb and hair) of an aromatic redheaded giantess . . . And music, vibrant to the rafters, of myriad insects, millions of animal sparkles (effervescence) . . . ?
. . . While one of her delicate kerchiefs hovers in the blue sky above.
August 13, 1940 – Morning
Let’s try to sum up. We have:
Ease
a) for strolling:
no low branches
no tall plants
no vines
Deep carpet. A few stray rocks as furnishing.
b) and for meditation:
tempering of light,
of wind.
Discreet fragrance.
Noises, discreet music.
Healthy atmosphere.
Life in the wings.
Soft musical accompaniment, muted.
Leisurely roaming, among so many columns, with almost resilient footfall, on these thick carpets made of green-growing hairpins. Leisurely labyrinth.
How one can stroll about amid these columns, the trees so well stripped of their deciduous branches!
August 13, 1940 – After noon
In many locations around the world, there are structures forming, growing and filling out incessantly along these same lines, greater or lesser in size, whose general pattern I’ll attempt to describe:
They include a ground level with very high ceilings (though this last term is inappropriate), and above that an infinity of upper floors, or rather an extremely complicated framework which consists of upper floors, ceiling and roofing.
No more walls than roof, strictly speaking: rather, they incline towards an open pavilion or arcade.
An infinity of columns support this absence of roofing.
August 17, 1940
Once again I’ve been reading the names of Apollinaire, Léon-Paul Fargue . . . and I’m ashamed of the academic nature of my vision: lack of rapture, lack of originality. Bringing nothing to the light of day except what I alone have to say. – As for the pine woods, I’ve just reread my notes. Little deserves to be saved. – What matters to me is the serious application with which I approach the object, and on the other hand the extreme precision of expression. But I must rid myself of a tendency to say things that are flat and conventional. It’s really not worthwhile writing if it comes down to that.
Pine woods, take your leave of death, of dis-regard, of the non-concious!
coiffed in upper floors and roof of a million crisscrossed green pins.
And on the ground a deep resilient layer of hairpins sometimes raised by the morbid and cautious curiosity of mushrooms.
Production of dead wood. (I’m entering this vast factory of dead wood.) What’s pleasant within it is the perfect dryness. Assuring vibrations and musicality. Something metallic. The presence of insects. Fragrance.
Rise up, pine woods, rise up in speech. We don’t know you. – Show us what you are made of. It’s not for nothing that you have been noticed by F. Ponge . . .
August 18, 1940
In the month of August of 1940, I made my way into familiarity with the pine woods. During that period, these particular kinds of sheds, arcades, natural pavilions have had their chance to leave the mute world, the realm of death and dis-regard, and come into the world of speech, of its use toward man’s moral ends, ultimately in the Logos or, if you prefer and by way of analogy, into the Kingdom of God.
August 20, 1940
Here, where a relatively orderly profusion of senile masts stand tall, coiffed with verdant cones, here, where the sun and the wind are sifted through an infinite crisscrossing of green needles, where the ground is covered by a thick carpet of green hairpins: here wood is slowly produced. Industrially mass-produced, but with unhurried majesty, here wood is manufactured. Perfected in silence and with unhurried majesty and caution. With a certain assurance and success as well. There are by-products: obscurity, meditation, fragrance, etc., kindling of lesser quality, pine cones (compacted fruits like pineapples), needles of vegetal hair, moss, heather, huckleberries, mushrooms. But, through all sorts of outgrowths, decaying one after another (and no matter), the prevailing idea is pursued and envisaged in the staff, the mast: – the beam, the plank.
The pine (I wouldn’t be off the mark in saying this) is the elemental idea of a tree. It is an I, a stalk, and the rest matters little. That is why – from its obligatory outgrowth along the horizontal – it provides so much dead wood. The thing is that only the stalk counts, completely straight, lean, naive and not deviating from that naive impulse, and with no regrets nor corrections nor second thoughts. (In an impulse without second thoughts, completely simple and straight.)
Completely evolved as well toward perfect dryness . . .
Have I entered the brushery (brushes, combs with handles finely tooled in lichen, hairpins) of a gigantic redheaded Creole, amidst these entanglements, these heavy scents? These great rocks here and there, left on top of the salon counter? Yes, most certainly, I find myself here, and as it turns out the place lacks neither charm nor sensuality. This is a great idea that a minor poet would be pleased to ponder.
But why pile on so many dead branches, why this massive stripping of the trunks, and why this consequent ease of strolling among them, with no vines, or cords, or smooth floorboards, but the deep carpet, the meditative obscurity, the silence? Because isn’t the pine the tree that furnishes the most dead wood, that becomes most totally disinterested in its earlier lateral outgrowth, etc.? By this route I come upon an idea perhaps initially less seductive (less shimmering, less cosmetic), but more serious and closer to the reality of my object . . . , etc.
August 21, 1940
Let’s put it simply: on entering a pine woods in the sweltering heat of summer, the pleasure one feels is much like what might be produced by the small hairdressing salon adjoining the bathroom of a wild but noble creature. Aromatic brushery in an overheated atmosphere, the vapors rising from the lacustrian or marine bath. Fragments of sky like shards of mirrors seen through brushes with long handles finely tooled in lichen. A scent sui generis of hair, of its combs and its hairpins. Natural perspiration and hygienic scents mingled. Heavy ornamental stones left here and there on the hairdressing counter, and in the high rafters an animal effervescence, the millions of animal sparkles, the musical, singing vibration.
At once, both brushes and combs. Brush
es whose every bristle has the shape and brilliance of the tooth of a comb.
Why has she chosen brushes with green bristles and violet wood handles all tooled with verdigris lichen? Perhaps because this noble savage is a redhead, soon to steep in the neighboring bath, lacustrian or marine. This is the hairdressing shop of Venus, with Phoebus light bulbs inserted in the mirror wall.
I find that a not-unappealing tableau, because it truly renders the pleasure felt by any man who ventures into pine woods in August. A minor poet, indeed even an epic poet, might be content with that. But we are something other than a poet and have something else to say.
If we’ve made our way into the familiarity of these private chambers of nature, and if they were thereby brought to new life in speech, it is not only so we may grasp this sensual pleasure anthropomorphically, but also that a more serious co-nascence may come of it.
So let’s delve into this more thoroughly.
FORMATION OF A POETIC ABSCESS
August 22, 1940
Winter: Temple of caducity.
Eroded by lichen, the low branches have fallen. And no encumbrance midway up. No snaking of vines or ropes. You can roam about at leisure between the senile masts (all crinkled and lichen-cloaked like old Creole men), their locks entangled in the heights.
In August: All set about by mirrors, it’s a pavilion of aromatic hairpins, sometimes raised by the morbid but cautious curiosity of mushrooms; a brushery with long-tooled handles of crimson wood and green bristles, chosen by the wild and noble redhead rising from the lacustrian or marine bath that steams by the low-lying shoulder.
Variation
Temple of caducity! Winter, eroded by lichen, the lower branches have fallen. And no encumbrance midway up, no snaking vines or ropes. You can roam about at leisure among the senile masts whose mops of hair tangle only in the skies.
In August, all set about by mirrors, it’s a pavilion of aromatic hairpins (sometimes raised after light rainfall by the morbid, cautious curiosity of mushrooms), a brushery with long-tooled handles and green bristles, for the flamboyant creature rising from the marine or lacustrian bath that steams by the low-lying shoulder.
August 24, 1940
Simple and accurate expressions to be retained from the pine woods:
Slow production of wood.
Isn’t a pine the tree that furnishes the most dead wood?
On the ground a deep resilient layer of aromatic hairpins whose dry surface is sometimes raised after light rainfall through the morbid curiosity of mushrooms.
. . . And not a leaf stirs between these senile masts whose conical tufts mingle in the skies.
Words to look up in the Littré:
(I’ve reached that point2)
Caduc. Decrepit: frail, on the verge of collapse.
Caducité. Caducity: lack of persistence in one part.
Fournaise. Furnace: 1. large fire; 2. blazing fire; 3. by exaggeration, a very hot place.
Cosmétique. Cosmetic: same origin as cosmos: world, order, ornament.
Encombre. Hindrance: accident that impedes, but comes from incombrum: a mass of felled wood (what a marvelous confirmation).
Serpentement. Snaking: checked.
Lichen: vegetal agamae whose life is arrested by dryness.
Halle, halliers. Pavilion, thicket: checked.
Elastique. Resilient: which returns to its original shape.
Champignon: mushroom which grows in pastoral sites.
Brosserie. Brush factory. No. Brossailles. Broussailles. Brushwood.
Négligentes. Negligent, remiss: from nec legere, not for taking, not for picking. A poor fit.
Above all, it is a slow production of wood.
Through all the successive lateral outgrowth – progressively lichen-cloaked and decaying but no matter (through exaggerated layers of lichen) – the shaft must become more noticeable, persisting for the sole benefit of the more and more heaven-bent conical toupees which time and again hold to the skies seven candelabra.
Overheated shed
Cosmetic lair in summer
Pavilion of aromatic hairpins, where amidst all its brushery with green bristles and long-tooled handles, the wild and noble savage redhead soon dries on rising from the marine or lacustrian bath that steams away by the low-lying shoulder.
Pavilion overheated in summer, all set about by mirrors – where, on deep resilient ground of aromatic hairpins, amid all its brushery with long handles of tooled crimson wood, green-bristled – comes the wild and noble redhead soon to dry on rising from the marine or lacustrian bath that steams away by the low-lying shoulder.
August 25 – 26, 1940
Pavilion overheated in summer. Elementary stalls all set about by mirrors. In the overheated shade of a dense green-bristled brushery, with its long handles of tooled crimson wood, soon dry on the deep resilient ground of aromatic hairpins each figure rising from the marine or lacustrian bath that steams away by the low-lying shoulder.
The Pine Woods
Alpine brushery set about by mirrors
Their crimson wood handles high-tufted in green bristles
In your warm shadow splashed with sunlight
Came Venus to comb her hair on rising from her bath,
Marine or lacustrian, that steams by the low-lying shoulder
Whence the deep resilient ocher ground
Of aromatic hairpins
Loosed above by masses of indolent treetops
Variation
The alpine brushery – set about by mirrors –
With crimson wood handles high-tufted in green bristles . . .
On the deep resilient ocher ground
Of aromatic hairpins
Loosed above by masses of indolent treetops,
In the warm shadow splashed with sunlight,
Soon to dry the nude rising from the bath
Marine or lacustrian, that steams by the low-lying shoulder
Beneath taut-strung ribbons of sleepless weave
Another
The high brushery set about by mirrors
With crimson wood handles with tufts of green bristle.
In her peignoir, shadow splashed with sunlight,
Soon to dry, Venus on rising from her bath,
Marine or lacustrian, that steams by the low-lying shoulder.
On the deep resilient ocher ground
Of aromatic hairpins
Loosed above by masses of indolent heads . . .
Floats the oblique sash of sleepless weave.
An Aspect of Pine Woods
The alpine brushery high-tufted in green bristle
With crimson wood handles set about by mirrors . . .
In its hot shadow splashed with sunlight
Came Venus to comb her hair on rising from her bath.
Marine or lacustrian, that steams by the low-lying shoulder,
Whence the deep resilient ocher ground
Of aromatic hairpins
Loosed above by masses of indolent treetops.
Variation
The high brushery, set about by mirrors
With crimson wood handles high-tufted in green bristles . . .
In these peignoirs made of shade splashed with sunlight,
Dry, you vaporous bodies come from the bath,
Marine or lacustrian, that steams by the low-lying shoulder,
On the deep resilient ocher ground
Of aromatic hairpins
Loosed above by masses of indolent treetops
August 28, 1940
The high brushery set about by mirrors
With crimson wood handles high-tufted in green-bristles . . .
In a peignoir made of shadow splashed with sunlight
Came Venus to comb her hair on rising from her bath,
Marine or lacustrian, that steams by the low-lying shoulder . . .
Whence the depth on resilient ocher ground
Of aromatic hairpins
Loosed above by masses of indolent treetops
>
Variation
The high brushery high-tufted in green bristles
With tooled handles set about by mirrors . . .
Did Venus comb her hair there, come from the bath,
Marine or lacustrian, that steams by the low-lying shoulder?
Remains, on the resilient ocher depth
Of aromatic hairpins
Loosed above by masses of indolent treetops,
A peignoir of shadow splashed with sunlight
Obliquely woven of sleepless atoms.
Another
The age-old brushery, high-tufted in green bristles,
With tooled handles set about by mirrors . . .
In a peignoir made of shadows splashed with sunlight,
Venus slips away, come from the bath,
Marine or lacustrian, that steams by the low-lying shoulder.
Nothing remains on the resilient ocher carpet
Of aromatic hairpins
Loosed above by masses of indolent treetops,
But ribbons woven of sleepless atoms.
Another
The whole of a brushery high-tufted in green bristle
With crimson wood handles set about by mirrors
Spirits away a figure come from the bath,
Marine or lacustrian, that steams by the low-lying shoulder
Mute Objects of Expression Page 5
