# Scale Changes, Circular Structures, and Snaking Curves: Ecospiritual Structures of Resilience in Early 20th-Century German-speaking Literature

Aurélie Choné

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Aurélie Choné. Scale Changes, Circular Structures, and Snaking Curves: Ecospiritual Structures of Resilience in Early 20th-Century German-speaking Literature. Narratives of Resilience / Narrative der Resilienz, 5, Springer Berlin Heidelberg, pp.257-279, 2026, Environmental Humanities, 978-3-662-71079-1. 10.1007/978-3-662-71079-1_13. hal-05327990

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# Scale Changes, Circular Structures, and Snaking Curves: Ecospiritual Structures of Resilience in Early 20th-Century German-speaking Literature

Aurélie Choné

**Abstract** This chapter begins with a theoretical discussion of the links between psychological resilience and literature by exploring the healing power of writing and reading, as well as the importance of poetic language in ecopsychology. The chapter then proceeds to shed light on three structures that are common to many literary texts dealing with human beings' capacity to resist, adapt and transform in the face of disaster, in particular natural disaster, illustrating each structure with a paradigmatic example: scale changes with the poem "Du dunkelnder Grund" (1899) by Austrian writer Rainer Maria Rilke, circular structures with the short story *Die Stadt* (1910) by German (later Swiss) novelist Hermann Hesse, and snaking curves with the illustrated manuscript *Das Rote Buch* (1913–1929) by Swiss psychiatrist C. G. Jung. This chapter highlights the spiritual dimension of these structures, related to what is today called ecospirituality.

## 1 Introduction

In material science, resilience is the ability of a material to absorb energy when it is deformed elastically, and release that energy upon unloading. Modern resilience studies originated among psychologists and psychiatrists. The concept was then imported by the social sciences. It has found particular resonance in the context of the environmental crisis, which has highlighted the vulnerability of individuals and societies in a globalized, highly technological and connected world, faced with uncertainty and fraught with risks related to both industrial accidents and natural disasters. Resilience has been most frequently defined as the ability to endure, respond to, and recover from shock. Researchers in literary studies have recently started to pick up the concept and to apply it in different areas. In this

<footnote>A. Choné (✉)</footnote>

<footnote>Université de Strasbourg, Strasbourg, France</footnote>

<footnote>E-Mail: achone@unistra.fr</footnote>
chapter, I have chosen not to define the concept of resilience in a narrow and rigid way, because its scope varies according to the context; it will therefore integrate, in a flexible and shifting way, different capacities such as those of regeneration, positive resistance to adversity, and adaptation.

My approach is based in particular on literary and cultural studies, in connection with interdisciplinary fields of the Environmental Humanities such as ecopsychology (in connection with ecophilosophy and ecospirituality), ecoeducation, and ecocriticism. Without systematically using the term, ecocriticism has examined the various ways literature treats the subject of resilience in the context of the environmental crisis. Cultural and Literary Plant Studies and Animal Studies have also been interested in the resilience of nature, giving a voice to the voiceless, including plants and animals. The aim is to reread literary texts by enlarging the “parliament of things” (Serres, 1995), by enabling those who have no voice to be heard, for example, by paying attention to the birds who are falling silent (cf. Macé 2022). This leads to an ecopolitical project, which involves re-imagining links and recognizing natural entities as political partners.

I will first trace the links between psychological resilience and literary narrative by exploring the healing power of writing, the importance of poetic language in ecopsychology and the role of writing and reading in environmental education. I then shed light on three structures that are common to many literary texts dealing with human beings' capacity to respond, adapt and transform in the face of disaster, in particular natural disaster: scale changes, circular structures and snaking curves.

## 2 The Healing Power of Writing and Reading

The birth of resilience as a concept and scientific paradigm is strongly linked with literary manifestations, mainly narrative ones. Boris Cyrulnik (2012), known in France for developing and explaining to the public the concept of psychological resilience, distinguishes between “trauma” (a shocking event that intrudes into our world) and “traumatism” (how to remember and imagine trauma). After having experienced a trauma, the pressing question is: What am I to do with what has happened to me, with the horror and the loss that have befallen me? The necessity of testimony implies the telling of stories—individual, shared, collective stories. I will illustrate the healing power of writing in two narratives that demonstrate the importance of individual resilience in the face of environmental disasters.

An approach focusing on the relationship between literature and psychology (cf. Cyrulnik/Seron 2004) examined individual trauma (mourning, illness, violence) and inner resilience as thematised in literary works. This psychological approach, which emphasises the capacity for resistance and adaptation that enables an individual to be reborn from suffering, can be applied to one of the first environmental novels in German literature, *Pfisters Mühle* by Wilhelm Raabe (1884), which depicts the destruction of an idyllic place due to pollution
from a sugar beet factory and documents the experience of writing in the face of
this trauma. The narrator, Eberhard Pfister, a teacher who recounts his childhood
in a fabulous environment at his father's mill, writes poems to cope with the
environmental destruction and the decline of the miller's business. His poems
that are integrated in the story as well as the form of the narrative structure
reflect Eberhard Pfister's resilience building—until he has come to terms with
the modernization process. The use of a frame narrative introduces a temporal
distance to the vanishing idyll and its decline, making it possible for the reader to
register and accept the traumatic losses (of the narrator's father and of the mill).
The narrative structure of *Pfisters Mühle* thus records an event in its aftermath and
fosters acceptance of the fact that this has happened, can happen, and may happen
again. The reader may be irritated by the fact that Eberhardt, despite his father
having won the case against the sugar factory, still sells the family estate to an
industrialist and does not fight against what he seems to perceive as the inexorable
course of history. Narrative, in this case, seems to foster a process of individual
acceptance and adaptation rather than collective resistance against the destruction
of the environment.

The theme of individual resilience has also been addressed from a gendered
perspective (cf. Richards 2019). The novel *Die Wand* by Marlen Haushofer (2014)
describes how a woman of about fifty years of age manages to survive alone in
nature after finding herself cut off from the rest of the world by an invisible wall.
The novel was interpreted as a sign of a new eco-feminism (cf. ibid.). Writing is
what helps the woman remain alive and human: she writes down her emotions,
memories, describing her relations with the living beings around her on the few
sheets of paper she has left. Her testimony is a fictional one but can be read in
relation to autobiographical testimonies by people who managed to overcome
misfortune, or to other types of literary narratives (tales, novels, biographies).
Such narratives emphasize the potential of people to recover from serious trauma
and the healing power of writing.

Literary scholar Angelo Gianfrancesco (2003) introduced the concept
of “resilience literature” to describe a range of literary texts all following the same
archetypal structure (trial, death, or vital wound, and rebirth). This archetypal,
heroic model of resilience is popular in “affective bibliotherapy for children and
young people” (Reynolds 2023, 113), who identify with the hero or heroine and
can thus draw from within themselves the strength to imitate this model. However,
this model has recently been challenged on the grounds that it can repress and
exclude difference, and that bibliotherapy must be inclusive and integrate alter-
native, complicated, messy, and non-linear stories (cf. Reynolds 2023). Whatever
the case, bibliotherapy is based on the healing power of reading, on the principle
that literary and poetic texts take care of the readers’ souls and offer the resources
needed to foster resilience (cf. Detambel 2015; Feuillebois/Mangeon 2023).

This is why reading, and literary practice in general, are so important in the
areas of eco-education and ecopsychology. Literature and literary practice are not
only useful to promote psychological resilience. They are also helpful to build
resilience in children and young people through writing and reading, i.e. in an
educational context, and later throughout life. The enormous advantage literary expression offers is “to accommodate any issue linked to the concerns and desires of human beings. [...] But above all, while we enjoy, understand or produce narrative, poetry, essays or dramatic pieces we come in contact with our inner world” and we can exchange cognitive and emotional information with others (Reyzábal 2014, 123).

The role of schooling in helping build resilience (in the sense of the ability to cope with adverse conditions or catastrophes) has been the subject of much work. Many projects aim at finding therapeutic techniques, often artistic ones (cf. Reyzábal 2014). Research on the vital and educational impact of literature has underlined how the development of literary competence can contribute to fostering individuals’ resilience regardless of their age or biographical situation. To promote resilience in the face of the environmental crisis, certain literary works can be used as a support for reflection and to help understand global issues on ecology and technology, energy sources and crisis management (cf. Sippl/Rauscher/Scheuch 2020). Scholars have also studied narrative (in the broad sense) as a factor of resilience and care in the face of environmental and health crises (cf. Biancofore 2021). The international participatory action research project “Econarrative”<fnref n="1" /> explores to what extent eco-narrative practices can transform our modes of perception and action in the face of today’s environmental and health crises, so as to strengthen our resilience and care for ourselves, others, and living ecosystems. These writing workshops seem to me to be particularly relevant in helping young people to find within themselves the resources capable of transforming their relationship with living beings. This teaching practice, based on an ethic of care, develops from a quality of attention to oneself, to others, and to living ecosystems (Biancofore/Barniaudy 2024). Interest in the role of eco-narrative practices has been growing with the recent emergence of new interdisciplinary fields of research over the past decades, such as the Environmental Humanities, and particularly ecocriticism, which analyzes narratives with regard to the relationship between other-than-human and human beings and earth ethics.

The research training project exploring life narrative as a formative art, based on the book *Produire sa vie: Autoformation et autobiographie* by Gaston Pineau and Marie-Michèle (1983), is another example of the narrative approach to eco-learning for adults. This project aimed to initiate interactive and partnership-based autobiographical research on self-learning. It was a threefold undertaking: socio-personal, narrative and formative. Inspired by Edgar Morin and Gregory Bateson, this research on eco-learning<fnref n="2" /> is based on reflexive genres and practices (autobiography, journals, practice narratives, etc.) that bring into dialogue knowledge produced from first-person experience with knowledge constructed in

<footnote n="1">¹This project is part of a wider research program devoted to the “theories and practices of care”: see https://tepcare.hypotheses.org/econarrative (accessed 12/12/2024).</footnote>

<footnote n="2">²See the work conducted by GREF (a research team working on eco-learning): https://ecoformation.hypotheses.org/ (accessed 12/12/2024).</footnote>
collective dialogue (second person), and scholarly or traditional knowledge (third person). Narrating one's life in relation to the elements, the natural environment and other-than-human entities lies at the heart of eco-learning and is undeniably linked to literary practice. The environmental crises of the 'planetary era' require that we learn anew how to live on earth (cf. Pineau et al. 2005) and become aware of our practices in relation to the environment, the elements (cf. Pineau 2015) or the mountains (cf. Andreux 2005). Faced with the democratization of life narratives, psychology researchers are now questioning the links between narrative and resilience:

> For, while narrative is now endowed with all possible virtues, while we are realizing that narrative can be written with therapeutic or cathartic, even formative, expectations, can it be considered 'in itself' as a factor of resilience, or does it only reveal, after the fact, the possibility of resilience? Does it carry the possibility of emancipation from what has been suffered, or on the contrary, does it lock up one's life in words that will fix the traumas in an endless present? (Lani-Bayle/Slowik 2016, back cover)

Another interesting question concerns the relationship between individual and socio-ecological resilience: Does individual psychological resilience necessarily translate into socio-ecological resilience? The concept of resilience has been the target of criticisms precisely aimed at the ways in which it can be used to shift the burden from institutional structures to individuals. As a literary scholar, I believe in the therapeutic virtues of writing (and reading) for individuals, but only if it is not a form of escapism or a pretext for not acting and committing oneself; only if it remains dynamic, alive, and in touch with society or other people. It is sometimes possible to experiment with the living practice of literature in spaces that were not originally intended for this purpose, for example in the “Work That Reconnects (WTR)” created by American environmental activist and ecophilosopher Joanna Macy. She was influenced by Buddhism and by Jungian analyst James Hillmann and translated Rilke’s *Book of Hours* into English in her early career. In the many workshops she has given around the world over the last few decades, she often quotes and reads poems by Rilke, in particular “Du Dunkelnder Grund” to which I will return later. Macy approaches resilience not in an intellectual way, but through practical work with the body and emotions, leading to self-transformation through our self-healing capacities. According to her, we must first express our gratitude for the wonder of the natural world and then become aware of negative emotions such as grief, sorrow, anger, deprivation, powerlessness, and fear in the face of climate change and the mass extinction of species.

Macy has explained how abstract information about the environmental crisis suddenly descended into her body and emotions, and became physical and moral pain (cf. Macy/Brown 2014). “The Work that Reconnects”, based on her teachings, follows a spiral sequence of practices, moving through the four stages of ‘Gratitude’, ‘Honoring Our Pain for the World’, ‘Seeing with New Eyes’ and ‘Going Forth’. According to Macy, this practice of self-awareness and reconnection with oneself, with others, and with other-than-human actants helps to transform despair and distress into inspired work and ability to listen,
to be compassionate, to take collaborative action, and to care for others. I cannot
detail all of the exercises proposed during the workshops, but I will just give
one example because of its proximity to literary practice: “Open Sentences” is a
structure for spontaneous expression. It helps people to listen with rare receptivity
as well as speak their thoughts and feelings frankly. People sit in pairs, face to
face and close enough to attend to each other fully. They refrain from speaking
until the exercise begins. One is Partner A, the other Partner B. When the guide
speaks each unfinished sentence, A repeats it, completes it in his own words,
addressing Partner B, and keeps on talking spontaneously for the time allotted.
The partners can switch roles after each open sentence or at the end of the
series. The listening partner—and this is to be emphasized—keeps silent, saying
absolutely nothing and hearkening as attentively and supportively as possible.
Open Sentences on Gratitude can begin in the following manner: “Some things
I love about being alive on Earth are…” or “A place that was wonderful to me
as a child was …”. Open sentences on ‘Our Pain for the World’ can be: “When
I see the world collapse, I feel …” or “When I face the collapse of society, of
civilization, what breaks my heart is …” This exercise, like other exercises in
the “Work That Reconnects”, is practiced in a ritual way: the person who speaks
often uses beautiful, prophetic, poetic and deep language. Macy’s workshops
on ecospirituality are an interesting case study of how literary practice can be
incorporated into what Kate Rigby calls an “ecopoetics beyond-the-page” (Rigby
2020, 191–194) or an “ecopoetics-in-action” (in this volume).

3 Typical Structures of Resilience in Early 20th-Century
German-speaking Literature

In the second part of this chapter, I would like to shed light on three structures
that are common to many literary texts dealing with human beings’ capacity to
endure, adapt, and transform in the face of disaster, in particular natural disaster. I
will illustrate each structure with a paradigmatic example: scale changes with the
poem “Du dunkelnder Grund” (1899) by Rainer Maria Rilke, circular structures
with the short story *Die Stadt* (1910) by Hermann Hesse, and snaking curves with
the illustrated manuscript *Das Rote Buch* (1913–1929) by C. G. Jung.

3.1 Scale Changes

Changes of scale are, generally speaking, about shifting paradigms: taking a step
back can help putting what seemed to be an insoluble problem into perspective.
This approach relates to the spiritual exercise described by French classical philo-
sopher and historian of philosophy Pierre Hadot in his book on spiritual exercises
in ancient Greek philosophy: the “view from above”, which was practiced
in the ancient schools (cf. Hadot 2012, ch. 2). In this exercise, the students are encouraged to reconsider how small, or ant-like, their lives and actions appear from an enlarged, or cosmic, perspective, so as to combat the erroneous significance our self-interest and passions prompt us to assign to particular episodes. Seeing things from above is also essential on a psychological level, as psychiatrist and psychoanalyst Carl Gustav Jung explains, using the image of the storm to describe the way his patients managed to outgrow their problems by reaching a higher level of consciousness:

> Some higher or wider interest arose on the person's horizon, and through this widening of his view the insoluble problem lost its urgency [...]. What, on a lower level, had led to the wildest conflicts and to panicky outbursts of emotion, viewed from the higher level of the personality, now seemed like a storm in the valley seen from a high mountain-top. This does not mean that the thunderstorm is robbed of its reality, but instead of being in it, one is now above it. (Jung 1962, 91)

The poem “Du dunkelnder Grund” (1899) by Rainer Maria Rilke illustrates this effort to take flight, to escape the narrowly human world, to enter another time outside of time. Two temporalities are distinguished: that of human society and that of the earth.

> Du dunkelnder Grund, geduldig erträgst du die Mauern.
> Und vielleicht erlaubst du noch eine Stunde den Städten zu dauern
> und gewährst noch zwei Stunden den Kirchen und einsamen Klöstern
> und lässtse fünf Stunden noch Mühsal allen Erlöstern
> und siehst noch sieben Stunden das Tagwerk des Bauern—:

> Eh du wieder Wald wirst und Wasser und wachsende Wildnis
> in der Stunde der unerfaßlichen Angst,
> da du dein unvollendetes Bildnis
> von allen Dingen zurückverlangst.

> Gib mir noch eine kleine Weile Zeit: ich will die Dinge so wie keiner lieben,
> bis sie dir alle würdig sind und weit.
> Ich will nur sieben Tage, sieben
> auf die sich keiner noch geschrieben,
> sieben Seiten Einsamkeit.

> Wem du das Buch gibst, welches die umfaßt,
> der wird gebückt über den Blättern bleiben.
> Es sei denn, daß du ihn in Händen hast,
> um selbst zu schreiben. (Rilke 1941 Book 1, 44–45)<fnref n="3" />

<footnote n="3">³See the full translation by A.L. Peck: “You dusky dark earth, you endure the walls’ weight with such patience. / And perhaps you grant to the cities just one more hour to continue / and allow two more hours to the churches and convents sequestered / and leave five more hours of distress for all who are ransomed / and see for seven more hours the work of the peasant -: / Till you slip back to woodland and water and wilderness rampant / in the hour of incomprehensible fear / when your as yet unperfected likeness / you from all things that exist reclaim. / Give me but time a little while: I would / love all things as none yet has ever loved them, / till they’re all worthy of you and wide and broad. / I need but seven days, just seven, / on which no man himself’s yet written, / seven sheets of solitude. / To one you give the book they’re in, and then / he will sit bowed over their surface white. / Unless your hands then take him as a pen / that you may write.” (Rilke 1961, 79–80).</footnote>
Here is the (partial) translation of Rilke’s poem by Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy (Barrows/Macy 2005):

Dear darkening ground,
you’ve endured so patiently the walls we’ve built,
please give the cities one more hour
and grant the churches and cloisters two,
And those that labor—maybe you’ll let their work
grip them for another five hours, or seven

before you become forest again, and water,
and widening wilderness,
in that hour of inconceivable terror
when you take back your name from all things.

Just give me a little more time.
I just need a little more time,
because I am going to Love the things
as no one has thought to love them,
until they’re real and worthy of you.

The initial alliteration ("Du dunkelnder Grund") evokes an intimate, almost filial relationship between the lyrical self and the earth, the soil that supports us all, and whose obscure depths remain unfathomable and mysterious. The more aware we become of the ephemeral nature of human productions (walls, cities, churches, cloisters), the more precious and worthy of love they seem to us, and the more we wish them to be worthy of the ground that supports them ("dir alle würdig"). "The strength of Rilke's poetry is that he understood himself as a vessel through which life herself could do the writing", observes one of Macy's students, consultant, educator and activist Daniel Wahl (2020), commenting on the verse "before you become forest again, and water and widening wilderness, in that hour of inconceivable terror when you take back your names from all things". This verse—with the powerful w-alliteration in German "Eh du wieder Wald wirst und Wasser und wachsende Wildnis" (Rilke 1941, Book 1, 44)—could fill us with fear, but this image leaves Wahl on the contrary "with a sense of trust in life's inherent capacity and potential for regeneration. Life—as a planetary process—is a regenerative community and we are called back home into its midst!" (Wahl 2020). This poem, often quoted by Macy, has accompanied Wahl as a prayer for years:

To me Rilke’s pleading request in a poem written 120 years ago is prophetic and revelatory. Revelatory in as much as it reminds me that sensitive souls and holistic visionaries even a century ago already saw the trajectory of humanity’s growing exploitative and degenerative impact. [...] Rilke’s poem is prophetic with regard to why he is asking for “a little more time. Just give me a little more time.” He is asking for more time to enter into a deep relationship of care “so I may love the things until they are real, and ripe and worthy of you.” To me this speaks of the story of interbeing, of—as the great poet Mary Oliver called it: “coming home into the family of things”—the family of life. (Wahl 2020)

By rising above all the “things” and looking at them from a different temporality,
the lyric self develops a love for all things, which Wahl interprets as an ethic of
“care”, of “dignity” (worthy). However, can we go so far as to consider the lyric self as the spokesperson for the living earth? Could it be that Macy and Wahl are in some way instrumentalising these lines, or at least over-interpreting them and appropriating Rilke as a prophet of the anthropogenic destruction of nature? Indeed, we may have the impression that the lyrical self speaks until the end in its own name, and that the opposition Ich/Du remains, even if the lyrical self imagines how the earth unfolds its agency in a time after humankind; it may seem that the lyrical self is more interested in transforming things through his love than in speaking on their behalf. Wahl also seems to be focusing on the one line that anticipates the future of rewilding (“Eh Du wieder Wald wirst…”, Rilke 1941, Book 1, 44). It is not insignificant that Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy should have left out the translation of the last seven lines. Their interest in this poem is linked to the ecosophical message it delivers, which explains why they leave out stanzas that are not directly part of this message. Their undertaking is clearly one of adaptation rather than literary translation.

To better understand this poem and Macy's interest in it, we should situate the analyzed extract in the general context of the publication of *The Book of Hours* between 1899 and 1903, a century before the term Anthropocene was coined to encapsulate the idea that human alterations of the Earth system were causing irreversible damage to ecosystems. During this period of early maturity, Rilke was above all preoccupied with the question of the divine. The lyrical self is a monk who writes his prayer book—this term refers to the medieval tradition of illuminated liturgical books for the lay Catholic faithful. *Das Stundenbuch / The Book of Hours* contains three parts: Vom mœnchischen Leben / Of the monastic life (1899) / Von der Pilgerschaft / Of pilgrimage (1901) / Von der Armuth und vom Tode / Of poverty and death (1903).<fnref n="4" /> The analyzed extract is in the last part of the first book. These famous lines at the beginning of Book 1 bear immediate witness to the religious, spiritual, and divine quest of the lyrical self: “Ich kreise um Gott, um den uralten Turm, / und ich kreise jahrtausendelang; / und ich weiß noch nicht: bin ich ein Falke, ein Sturm, / oder ein großer Gesang” (Rilke 1941, Book 1, 7)<fnref n="5" />. The first words of our extract “Du dunkelnder Grund” (ibid., 44)<fnref n="6" />, interpreted by Macy and Wahl as referring to the earth and living things, could in fact refer to an abyssal ground that is very present in the mystical tradition (the *Urgrund* of Jakob Böhme, the *Seelengrund* of Meister Eckhart), knowing that Rilke unmoors these mystical strands from their narrowly theological background, while retaining certain topoi such as that of the night or the inexpressible. We cannot name this obscure ground that slips away, and it would be pointless to try to fix it, to materialize it in an image (“dein unvollendetes Bildnis”, ibid.)<fnref n="7" />,

<footnote n="4">⁴The English translation used hereafter is again from A. L. Peck (Rilke 1961).</footnote>

<footnote n="5">⁵“I revolve around God, the tower of the ages, / along my millenial way; / am I a falcon in flight, am I a storm as it rages, / or a mighty song? None can say.” (Rilke 1961, Book 1, 45).</footnote>

<footnote n="6">⁶“You dusky dark earth” (Rilke 1961, 79).</footnote>

<footnote n="7">⁷“unperfected likeness” (Rilke 1961, 80).</footnote>
at the risk of rigidifying it and cutting ourselves off from it: “Wir bauen Bilder vor dir auf wie Wände;/ so daß schon tausend Mauern um dich stehn” (ibid., 8)<fnref n="8" />. This absent, elusive god is nonetheless what remains as civilizations come and go: “Was ist Rom?/ Es zerfällt./ Was ist die Welt?/ Sie wird zerschlagen,/ eh deine Türme Kuppeln tragen,/ eh aus Meilen von Mosaik/ deine strahlende Stirne stieg” (ibid., 14)<fnref n="9" />. In the face of a phenomenal world that is ephemeral and transitory, the obscure ground is eternal, like nature, which is constantly renewing itself; it is embodied in living things, in the wind, the sea, the mountains, the trees (“Weinberg, Weide, alter Apfelgarten, Acker, [...], Feigenbaum”, ibid., 42)<fnref n="10" /> and is reflected in every living thing. The lyrical self thus expresses a deep-rooted mysticism: “Auch wenn wir nicht wollen: Gott reift” (ibid., 15)<fnref n="11" />. If human beings try too hard to fix the divine principle, they freeze it and prevent the fruit—God—from being born.

The use of sacred, biblical numbers (such as the sacred number seven) and the structure of the prayer express an intense spiritual quest: the divine principle is so powerful and so overwhelming that the lyrical self experiences anguish and terror (“in der Stunde der unerfaßlichen Angst”, ibid., 44)<fnref n="12" />. He implores God to give him a little more time to name things with love, and thereby to make them exist, which is the poet’s mission. The lyrical self distinguishes between the poet’s bad attitude (“gebückt über den Blättern”, ibid., 45)<fnref n="13" /> and the good attitude, which consists of making oneself the receptacle of ‘Du’ (“daß du ihn in Händen hast,/um selbst zu schreiben”, ibid.)<fnref n="14" />: this new attitude heralds the possibility of an overcoming, a reversal, thanks to an intense love (“ich will die Dinge so wie keiner lieben”, ibid., 44)<fnref n="15" /> that is unconditional, non-possessive, intransitive (to use terms from the novel *Die Aufzeichnungen des Malte Laurids Brigge / The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge* and *Neue Gedichte / New Poems*), and provides a new perspective on the universe, on nature, on plants and animals. The invitation not to cling to things, not to possess them, is already inscribed in *Das Stundenbuch*. In the last part of Book 2, Rilke criticises the spirit of possession: “sie sagen mein zu allen Dingen [...] Sie sind wie Wind, der an die Zweige streift und sagt: mein Baum” (ibid., Book 2, 78–79)<fnref n="16" />. The poet would

<footnote n="8">⁸“We build up images like walls before you;/ by now a thousand ramparts hem you round.” (Rilke 1961, 46).</footnote>

<footnote n="9">⁹“What is Rome? A past/ glory, to ruin hurled./ What is the world?/ It will disintegrate/ before the domes upon your turrets soar,/ before your flaming forehead rise/ uplifted to the skies/ on rich mosaics, mile on mile.” (Rilke 1961, 52).</footnote>

<footnote n="10">¹⁰“Vineyard, pasture, orchard’s mellowing timber, cornland [...], fig-tree.” (Rilke 1961, 77).</footnote>

<footnote n="11">¹¹“Even in our wills’ despite/ God to ripeness grows.” (Rilke 1961, 52).</footnote>

<footnote n="12">¹²“in the hour of incomprehensible fear” (Rilke 1961, 80).</footnote>

<footnote n="13">¹³“he will sit bowed over their surface white.” (Rilke 1961, 80).</footnote>

<footnote n="14">¹⁴“Unless your hands then take him as a pen that *you* may write.” (ibid.).</footnote>

<footnote n="15">¹⁵“I would love all things as none yet has ever loved them,” (ibid.).</footnote>

<footnote n="16">¹⁶“They say ‘mine’ to all things/ that are patient and resigned./ They’re like the wind, that brushes past the boughs/ and says: *My tree*.” (Rilke 1961, 112).</footnote>
later criticize the instrumentalization of the living in late Western civilization based on the rise of modern technologies. It is because he was one of the first, at the beginning of the twentieth century, to attempt to reverse Western societies' view of living things and to warn against their possessive and Promethean attitude towards nature that some representatives of contemporary currents close to ecosophy, deep ecology, ecospirituality, and ecopsychology have been touched by his poems. Rilke foresaw the excesses of a century based on technological progress and seemed to be announcing, through the vision suggested at the end of the poem, the need for a new paradigm, namely a different relationship with living beings based on unconditional love and respect for other-than-human beings. The poem also seems to suggest that this can only be achieved through new values such as humility, patience, and solitude ("sieben Seiten Einsamkeit", ibid., Book 1, 44)<fnref n="17" />. The poet believes that refocusing on the essentials (embodied in these new values) will give rise to a new creative impetus.

What I find particularly relevant here is the importance of regeneration as a facet of ecological resilience, and the role of the poet in this process of regeneration: as a poet of the cosmos, Rilke allows us to escape the din of human creations through silence and interiority, the only virtues capable of healing us profoundly. However, Rilke was only just beginning to express that it was necessary to move beyond the old world (the straitjacket of religious institutions and the instrumentalized relationship with nature) to embark on a new project for a life based on new values. If Macy and Wahl were touched by this poem, it was because they recognized the paradigm shift called for by Rilke, the promise of a new path and gaze.

## 3.2 Circular Structures

Circular patterns often symbolize the resilience of living systems, as shown by the systemic approach in scientific and industrial ecology or in the cyclical economy model (cf. Buclet 2017). According to botanist and resilience researcher Lance H. Gunderson and the Canadian professor in Ecological Sciences Crawford S. Holling (2002), who blend systems theory and ecology, “three properties seem to shape the future responses of the ecosystems” (32):

* the potential available for change, since that determined the range of options possible;

* the degree of connectedness between internal controlling variables and processes, a measure that reflects the degree of flexibility or rigidity of such controls—i.e., their sensitivity or not to external variation;

* the resilience of the systems, a measure of their vulnerability to unexpected or unpredictable shocks.” (Holling/Gunderson 2002, 32–33)

<footnote n="17">¹⁷“seven sheets of solitude” (Rilke 1961, 80).</footnote>
Daniel Christian Wahl emphasizes the importance of “cyclical patterns of creative innovation, consolidation, ossification and eventual dissolution to make room for transformative innovation and renewed creativity” (Wahl 2016, 108):

> The adaptive cycle is a model of natural patterns of change in ecosystems and eco-social systems. It consists of four distinct phases: ‘growth or exploitation’ (r); ‘conservation’ (K) of established patterns and resource distribution; ‘collapse or release’ (Ω); and reorganization (α). The adaptive cycle is often drawn like an infinity symbol or Möbius loop that joins these four phases. (ibid.)

These circular structures can also be found in literary narratives. Hermann Hesse's short story *Die Stadt / The City*, published in 1910, begins with an engineer's self-satisfied assertion about the clearing of a forest and the progress of his building site: "'Es geht vorwärts!', rief der Ingenieur, als auf der gestern neu gelegten Schienenstrecke schon der zweite Eisenbahnzug voll Menschen, Kohlen, Werkzeugen und Lebensmitteln ankam" (Hesse 1975, 42).<fnref n="18" /> After a short account of the construction, heyday and decline of this city (summing up centuries of history in a few pages), the narrative returns to the initial situation and the satisfied statement at the beginning is repeated, but this time by a woodpecker who is delighted to see the forest grow once more—just like the speaker of Rilke's poem imagines the rewilding of the earth:

> Der Wald rückte vor und ergriff und verhüllte langsam das ganze Land, die Reste der alten Straßenmauern, der Paläste, Tempel, Museen, und Fuchs und Marder, Wolf und Bär bevölkerten die Einöde.

> "Es geht vorwärts!" rief ein Specht, der am Stamme hämmerte, und sah den wachsenden Wald und den herrlichen, grünenden Fortschritt auf Erden zufrieden an. (Hesse 1975, 47)<fnref n="19" />

The bird's pecks "hammering" against the tree trunk echo the blows of the hammer from the beginning of the story ("unter raschen Hammerschlägen", Hesse 1975, 42). This circular structure can be found in many of Hesse's short stories collected in *Märchen* [Fairy Tales]. It is a typical feature of resilient systems and makes active hope possible as it suggests that nature, here the figure of the forest, will always reclaim the urban world. (Recall the words of the lyrical self to the earth in "Du dunkelnder Grund": "Eh du wieder Wald wirst".) Die Stadt could be interpreted using C. S. Holling and Lance H. Gunderson's adaptive cycle diagram (Fig. 1, Holling/Gunderson 2002, 34), taken up and adapted by Wahl in 2016:

<footnote n="18">¹⁸"'Now we're getting somewhere!' cried the engineer when the second train carrying people, coal, tools and food arrived over the stretch of track that had been laid only the day before." (Hesse 1974, 193, transl. by Ralph Manheim).</footnote>

<footnote n="19">¹⁹"The forest advanced, slowly cloaking the whole countryside, the remnant of old walls, palaces, temples and museums. And fox and marten, wolf and bear inhabited the wilderness./ 'Now we're getting somewhere!' cried a woodpecker who was hammering at the trunk and looked with satisfaction at the spreading forest and the magnificent green progress that was covering the earth." (Hesse 1974, 198).</footnote>
<figure><img src="image_3.png" /><figcaption>**Fig. 1** “The adaptive cycle”. Diagram adapted and expanded by Daniel Christian Wahl in his book *Designing Regenerative Cultures*, 2016. (© Triachry Press)</figcaption></figure>

At first, the forest is a virgin space, sheltering wild animals (*conservation*), but as construction work progresses with “the first saw” (“der erste Hobel”, Hesse 1975, 42) this inescapably leads to a *rigidity trap* (Wahl 2016): The animals flee and ultimately vanish, giving way to “flecks of coal and ashes and paper and tin” (“Flecken von Kohlen und von Asche und von Papier und von Blech”, ibid.). In German, the repetition of the preposition “von” imitates the sounds of the pickaxes. The forest is finally destroyed (*breakdown*) and replaced by concrete: sister cities (“Nachbarstädte”, ibid., 43) grow nearby and a flourishing new civilization arises with parks, monuments, and works of art testifying to human technical ingenuity until, as a result of a variety of socio-economic factors, poverty creeps in, leading to decline. At the same time, nature takes over again, the ancient monuments fall into ruin and are covered with moss (*release*); the vegetation reclaims its rights (*breakthrough*). Following an earthquake, the eco-system is transformed (*reorganization*); the course of the river shifts, part of the
land turns into a swamp and another part into a desert; and finally, the old forest
can gradually creep down from the mountains to which it had been confined:
“Und von den Bergen her, wo die Reste uralter Steinbrüche und Landhäuser zer-
bröckelten, stieg der Wald, der alte Wald, langsam, herab” (Hesse 1975, 46)<fnref n="20" />. The
inversion of the subject (which is placed after rather than before the verb), together
with the apposition “der alte Wald” (“the old forest” that had not totally died but
lived on, although much diminished, in a reduced space) insists on this inevitable
return. A new process of growth (*growth*) can begin, slow yet unstoppable: “Er
sah die weite Gegend öde liegen und zog langsam ein Stück nach dem anderen
in seinen grünen Kreis, überflog hier einen Sumpf mit flüsterndem Grün, dort ein
Steingeröll mit jungem, zähem Nadelholz” (Hesse 1975, 46)<fnref n="21" />. The personification
of the forest, referred to with the personal pronoun “Er” placed at the beginning
of the sentence in subject position, reflects its status as an active, sentient living
being, endowed with sight (“sah”), the power of utterance (note the synaesthesia
“mit flüsterndem Grün”) and capable of action (“zog”, “überflog”). It is thus
endowed with agency and with the ability to regenerate. The regenerative powers
of the forest ecosystem are particularly well expressed through the description
of the young and hardy conifer trees (“jung[], zäh[]”). The striking discrepancy
between the short duration of the narrative time (*Erzählzeit*) and the very long
duration of the narrated time (*erzählte Zeit*) is a parabolic example of the change
of time scale. In addition to describing the adaptive cycle of natural ecosystems,
this story is a striking illustration of the life-and-death cycle of civilizations: by
drawing attention to the impermanence of human constructions,<fnref n="22" /> none of which
(however impressive) can withstand the test of time, the story invites the readers to
fully realize that all things are transient—a teaching that lies at the heart of many
spiritual traditions, especially Buddhism.

Significantly, the motif of the forest progressively resuming its rights over cities
is also present in the above-mentioned novel *Die Wand* by Marlen Haushofer. The
following extract underlines the differences between human and natural time:

> Manchmal kann ich nicht widerstehen und Spiele ein bißchen Vorsehung; ich rette ein Tier
> vor dem sicheren Tod oder schieße ein Stück Wild, weil ich Fleisch brauche. Aber mit
> meinen Pfuschereien wird der Wald leicht fertig. Ein neues Reh wächst heran, ein anderes
> Tier rennt ins Verderben. Ich bin kein ernst zu nehmender Störenfried. Die Nesseln neben
> dem Stall werden weiterwachsen, auch wenn ich sie hundertmal ausrotte, und sie werden

<footnote n="20">²⁰“And slowly the old forest crept down from the mountains, engulfing the crumbling remains of old country houses and stone bridges” (Hesse 1974, 197).</footnote>

<footnote n="21">²¹“It saw the vast region lying desolate and invaded it strip by strip, here covering a swamp with whispering green, there a rubble heap with hardy young conifers” (ibid.). Note that in German, “der Wald” [forest] is masculine, but this translation by Manheim uses the gender-neutral pronoun “it” in line with English grammar.</footnote>

<footnote n="22">²²Impermanence is also the fate of natural formations, as Hesse shows in another tale called *Der Berg*, which tells the story of a mountain that looked eternal but ultimately became worn and disappeared after an extremely long period of time. The shift in time scale is instrumental in making the readers aware of natural change.</footnote>
mich überleben. Sie haben soviel mehr Zeit als ich. Einmal werde ich nicht mehr sein, und keiner wird die Wiese mähen, das Unterholz wird in sie einwachsen, und später wird der Wald bis zur Wand vordringen und sich das Land zurückerobern, das ihm der Mensch geraubt hat. (Haushofer 2014, 184–185)<fnref n="23" />

## 3.3 Snaking Curves

Resilience is often associated with resistance, especially physical resistance, with the capacity of materials to withstand intense and sudden external pressures. Yet, it also differs from it due to important features that can be grasped through the image of the serpentine line. On a psychological level, individuals can decide to face obstacles or unexpected problems head-on and try to reestablish balance by counterforce: to an external and upsetting force, they will stubbornly oppose another force, seeking to counteract the former's effects, although more often than not, this will result in negative rather than positive consequences (cf. Cyrulnik/Seron, 2004). Another approach would be to let go and accept the problem without trying to resist it, in the awareness that this crisis must be undergone, this moment of change experienced before a new balance can be found. This attitude can help one to free oneself from destructive (rather than constructive) pressure and continue to live and move on by adapting. For instance, there is no point in trying to battle a strong headwind; one needs to wait for the end of the storm, or accept to fall and rise to go when it is over. A surfer, similarly, never faces a wave head-on; he turns around it, rises and falls, leaving a serpentine trail behind. Surfing has provided useful images to illustrate the psychological (or even spiritual) process of resilience after trauma, with ocean waves symbolizing the vicissitudes of life.<fnref n="24" />

In the early 20th century, Swiss psychiatrist Carl Gustav Jung referred to the sinuous movement of snakes, a central image in his life, work and thought. He carved one from a piece of wood around 1920, painted snakes inside mandalas and in *Das Rote Buch / The Red Book* (2009, in German and English) and

<footnote n="23">²³“Sometimes I can’t help it and play Providence a little; I save an animal from certain death or shoot a deer because I need meat. But the forest copes easily with my confusion. A new deer is born, another runs headlong to its doom. I’m not a trouble-maker worth taking seriously. The nettles beside the byre will go on growing, even if I exterminate them a hundred times, and they will survive me. They have so much more time than I do. One day I shall no longer exist, and no one will cut the meadow, the thickets will encroach upon it and later the forest will push as far as the wall and win back the land that man has stolen from it. Sometimes my thoughts grow confused, and it is as if the forest has put down roots in me, and is thinking its old, eternal thoughts with my brain. And the forest doesn’t want human beings to come back.” (Haushofer 1990, 160–161).</footnote>

<footnote n="24">²⁴See, among many other examples often related to self-help literature: Schoeninger (2013); Hamilton (2020).</footnote>
studied their role in mythologies from all over the world.<fnref n="25" /> For Jung, the snake is a very important archetype. It appears in various forms in the dreams of his patients, often conveying important messages from the soul. Like all archetypes, it is paradoxical, with a vital (instinctive and archaic) and a destructive (terrifying and demonic) face.<fnref n="26" /> Symbolically speaking, it leads human beings down into the depths of their being to free themselves from the shadows that hold them captive. The Ouroboros, the serpent (or dragon) that bites its own tail, can stand as a symbol of the cycle of life and the snake shedding its skin as an image of metamorphosis. In the illustrated manuscript *Das Rote Buch*, published to wide acclaim in 2009, Jung collected dreams, fantasies, visions, and inner dialogues he had after his break with Freud in 1913, as he was undergoing a serious existential crisis. *The Red Book* is an exceptional cultural, literary, and artistic document which contains the seeds of all the ideas he would later develop in his scientific work. He experimented with the technique of active imagination, which consists in letting unconscious contents emerge, translating them into visual forms, and confronting them. Plunging into himself, Jung encountered a serpent in January 1914 and spoke to her thus: “‘My sister, my soul, what do you say?’” (Jung 2009, 317). From the outset, their dialogue deals with the proximity of opposites (pathos and banality, good and evil, God and the Devil). The serpent asks the I: “[H]ave you noticed that the becoming of the soul follows a serpentine path? Have you seen how soon day becomes night, and night day? How water and dry land change places? And that everything spasmodic is merely destructive?” (ibid.). To which the I replies: “I believe that I saw all this” (ibid.). Further down, the I smilingly tells the serpent: “The sinuous line of life could not escape me in the long run” (ibid., 318). Spasmodic resistance is thus an obstacle to resilience. By contrast, the acceptance of change and adaptation to life in flux is essential for the development of personality, which Jung defined in a scientific essay as “die Tat des höchsten Lebensmutes, der absoluten Bejahung des individuell Seienden und der erfolgreichsten Anpassung an das universal Gegebene bei größtmöglicher Freiheit der eigenen Entscheidung” (Jung 1969, 135).<fnref n="27" /> A few years later, Jung insisted again on the importance of letting things happen and not doing anything (*wu wei* in Chinese) in his commentary of *The Secret of the Golden Flower*, a Taoist book that Richard Wilhelm sent him in 1928: “The art of letting things happen, action through non-action, letting go of oneself, as taught by Meister Eckhart, became for

<footnote n="25">²⁵For snakes in *Das Rote Buch* see Jung (2010, 109, 111, 154). See also the mandala “Systema munditotius” (Jung 2010, 364). Cf. note 33 in this chapter for the serpentine lines in *The Red Book*.</footnote>

<footnote n="26">²⁶The *draco*, a fabulous snake (from the same root as “dragon” in English or “Drache” in German) is often depicted in *Das Rote Buch* (cf. Jung 2010, 117, 119).</footnote>

<footnote n="27">²⁷“an act of high courage flung in the face of life, the absolute affirmation of all that constitutes the individual, the most successful adaptation to the universal conditions of existence coupled with the greatest possible freedom for self-determination.” (Jung 1981, 181).</footnote>
me the key opening the door to the way. We must be able to let things happen in the psyche” (Jung 1962, 93).

Another interesting facet of resilience emerges here, based on the awareness of the paradoxical and changing nature of all living beings (shifting polarities like the yin yang in Chinese thinking), in particular of the alternating phases of the earth and the soul.<fnref n="28" /> Every farmer knew once that land must be left fallow, i.e. uncultivated, for a period of time to regenerate and become fertile again.<fnref n="29" /> Apple trees do not bear apples every year, but generally only every other year. Paying attention to these cycles can allow one to become aware of the cycles of the earth as an ecosystem as well as of one’s own psychological cycles, which Jungian psychoanalyst Marie-Claire Dolghin described as “the seasons of the soul” (Dolghin 2009). Such attention—an almost religious one if one remembers the possible origin of the word “religion” in *relegere*, to read carefully—is necessary to avoid taking the path of resistance,<fnref n="30" /> pitting opposites against each other,<fnref n="31" /> and, on the contrary, choose reconciliation and accept the dark moments (of exhaustion, sickness or depression) preparing the emergence of new forces of life and creativity. Further down in Jung’s dialogue, Christ, who is Love, is associated with the serpent, in its redeeming quality:<fnref n="32" /> “wherever there is love, the serpentlike abides also. Christ himself compared himself to a serpent, and his hellish brother, the Antichrist, is the old dragon himself” (Jung 2009, 318). What is therefore required is to be able to “dance with uncertainty” (Egger 2021), to take up Joanna Macy’s phrase, since, according to Jung, “[n]ever before had life been so doubtful, a night of aimless tension, being one in being directed against one another” (Jung 2009, 318).

Doubts and uncertainty also lie in the very form of the *Red Book*: what genre does it belong to? Should it be defined as literature, art, autobiography, a spiritual quest, an intimate document, or a visionary tale? The writing moves in a serpentlike line, winding and unwinding (as it seeks to explain the raw material of dreams or visions), alternating between different voices, styles or typographies. It seems to illustrate the periodic, rhythmic dance between order and chaos, between stability and transformation, described by scientists in the theory of complex dynamic systems (cf. Holling 2001). This ‘dance’ can be understood as

<footnote n="28">²⁸Here we find the idea of adaptive cycle, i.e. a circular structure that includes the possibility of transformation.</footnote>

<footnote n="29">²⁹The practice of fallowing was widely suppressed with the modernization of agriculture and the introduction of superphosphate fertilizers.</footnote>

<footnote n="30">³⁰As is the case for example when nature is overexploited and the all too visible signs of the negative impact of such exploitation—the decline of biodiversity for instance—are not taken into account.</footnote>

<footnote n="31">³¹Nature and culture, for example.</footnote>

<footnote n="32">³²In Jung’s interpretation, the snake enables Eve to assert herself in front of God (Genesis 3). Such self-assertion is a necessary stage in the development of personality, and hence in the process of resilience.</footnote>
a fundamental pattern of self-organization in complex (living) systems, be they
physical or psychological. Sinuous shapes also abound in the illustrations painted
by Jung in the *Red Book*.<fnref n="33" /> Some of the illustrations are almost entirely made up
of intertwined serpentine lines, while others only count a few, as if the analogy
with physical or psychological living systems could also be applied here. In any
case, the recurring pattern of snaking curves is a good illustration of “dancing with
uncertainty”: it outlines a path enabling one to find one’s way through the maze of
life and connecting opposites, up and down, good and evil, empty and full (Choné
2024a). The serpent therefore becomes the very symbol of wisdom.

The *Red Book* also bears witness to Jung’s resilience after the trauma of
breaking with Freud and the realization that he was trapped in a social role (a
*persona*), as a recognized psychiatrist and the *pater familias* of a bourgeois Zurich
family. Working on the *Red Book*, Jung underwent a long spell in the wilderness,
plunging into himself to experience trauma and exposing himself to the risk
of dying in order to be reborn to a new, deeper, and more personal life, just as
a phoenix—a symbol often used by Jung—can rise again from its ashes. The
majestic rebirth of the phoenix can stand for the power of resilience, the ability
to overcome a trial without being destroyed and to renew oneself in the process.
By penning the winding story of his reunion with his soul for entire nights in the
darkness and solitude of his office, Jung found within himself the resources he
needed to overcome this major crisis in his life and find new creativity. Thirty
years later, the same resources helped him cope with the anguish that threatened
to overwhelm him as humankind was faced with the prospect of nuclear self-
destruction in the context of the Cold War (cf. Jung 1952)—an anguish that can be
compared to the eco-anxiety an increasing number of people are now feeling in the
face of climate change and ecological collapse (cf. Choné 2024b).

4 Conclusion

Rather than indulging in pessimism, the narratives analyzed in this chapter
emphasize the regenerative faculties of nature, human beings, literature, and
culture. The three patterns studied are interconnected: Snaking curves and circular
structures are closely related; the adaptive cycle pattern can be compared to a
serpentine line; scale changes are to be seen at all levels. The pattern that best
unites the three structures studied above would probably be that of the dynamic
spiral, symbolizing the movement and energy inherent in the mystery of life

<footnote n="33"><sup>33</sup>Several serpentine lines run across two drawings (Jung 2010, 87, 88); four similar curves are visible across the illustration (ibid., 89); a serpentine line extends across the drawing from top to bottom (ibid., 93); a serpentine line runs horizontally across two oval-shaped mandalas (ibid., 94–95); four sinuous lines uncoil in the four corners of the central circle toward the edge of the mandala (ibid., 121).</footnote>
Following on from these reflections, we might ask how convincing and adequate the cited examples of resilience from the early 20th century—particularly ecological resilience—are in the face of actual anthropogenic climate change and species extinction. The emphasis on natural processes of regeneration and recovery may be psychologically comforting, but could it distract from the urgent need to act now to prevent avoidable loss and suffering? Such a distraction would be a complete misunderstanding of the situation. Nature's capacity for regeneration must not lead humans to passivity on the pretext that 'nature can take care of itself alone'. The change of scale implied by such an eco-centric or geo-centric vision does not call into question the urgent need for a change in human attitudes towards nature. It allows us to realize that we need to move beyond an instrumentalised relationship with nature and towards a new way of life based on new values. It allows us to gain perspective and avoid sinking into despair or cynicism ("après moi, le déluge", "after me, the flood"). I am convinced that the right action can only come from positive (and not desperate) thinking. This is what Joanna Macy calls "active hope" (Macy 2022). In this sense, the examples analyzed in this chapter can be seen as precursors of Macy's approach at a time when feelings of urgency and anxiety (negative emotions which can paralyze action) about ecological upheavals are being felt more and more.

## List of Figures

**Fig. 1** "The adaptive cycle". In: Daniel Christian Wahl, 2016. Designing Regenerative Cultures. Charmouth: Triarchy Press, 108.

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