A quiet, spacious world, with the flowers so red and blue in the open fields. Here is nature once more at her old game of self-preservation. Still, there's no harm in putting a full stop to one's disagreeable thoughts by looking at a mark on the wall. Here is something definite, something real. Thus, waking from a midnight dream of horror, one hastily turns on the light and lies quiescent, worshipping the chest of drawers, worshipping solidity, worshipping reality, worshipping the impersonal world which is a proof of some existence other than ours.
Wood is a pleasant thing to think about.
I like to think of it, too, on winter's nights standing in the empty field with all leaves close-furled, nothing tender exposed to the iron bullets of the moon, a naked mast upon an earth that goes tumbling, tumbling, all night long. One by one the fibres snap beneath the immense cold pressure of the earth, then the last storm comes and, falling, the highest branches drive deep into the ground again. It is full of peaceful thoughts, happy thoughts, this tree. I can't remember a thing. There is a vast upheaval of matter.