Everything that's visible hides something else that is visible.

We see the world as something outside ourselves, when, actually, we have only the imprint of it in our heads.

Thrust from the earth toward the sun, a tree is an image standing for a kind of joy. To comprehend that image we must be quite still, like that tree. When we move, it is the tree that becomes the spectator.

In the forms of chairs, a table or a door the tree continues to keep watch over the agitated spectacle that is our life. Later, when the tree has become a coffin, it disappears into the ground again. And when it is consumed by flames, it vanishes into the air.

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