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.

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.

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.

Floats the oblique sash of sleepless weave.

NOTA BENE

If this variation is adopted, and allowing that the distichs WW and OM and the triplet OOL are invariable, their order and that of the lines N and B become freely interchangeable, though B must in any case always be placed after N.

These are the invariable elements:

Starting with this, one can lay out the elements ad libitum as follows:

1 2 3 4 5	1 4 2 3 5
1 2 4 3 5	1 4 3 2 5
1 2 3 5 4	1 4 3 5 2
1 3 2 4 5	1 4 3 5 2
1 3 5 4 2	2 3 4 5 1
1 3 4 2 5	2 4 3 5 1
1 3 2 5 4	2 4 3 5 1
1 3 5 2 4	2 3 1 4 5
1 3 4 5 2	2 3 1 4 5	etc.

However the sequence 4 – 2 is inadvisable (of aromatic hairpins of the glistening body . . . )

NONE OF THIS SHOULD BE TAKEN SERIOUSLY

None of this should be taken seriously.

What have I achieved in the course of these sixteen pages (pp. 91 to 106) and these ten days? – Not a whole lot for the pains I’ve taken.

Only this:

1. that the pine woods seem to be set about by mirrors, by hand mirrors (but this is already noted on pages 89 – 90);

2. the expression high-tufted, which is just right;

3. that the hairpins are “loosed above by masses of indolent treetops,” which is quite pretty, gives a rather good picture of the lazy swaying of the pine summits. But I’ll have to look up négligent, indolent, in the Littré . . .

4. the image of the dressing gown, the word peignoir itself is right in speaking of Venus, since it is what’s put on before combing one’s hair, se peigner;

5. entaché, splashed, which gives the right impression of shade splashed with sunlight, because it includes a pejorative sense, an indication of imperfection in the subject, which is valuable;

6. AND ABOVE ALL, the idea, the awareness of this reality: of the sunlight seen through the pine woods nothing remains but shadow, some taut-strung oblique ribbons, and sleepless flies.

If I’ve achieved no more than this in ten days of uninterrupted and relentless effort (I can certainly claim that much), then I’ve wasted my time. I’d even be tempted to say, the time of the pine woods. For after an eternity of nonexpression in the mute world, it is eager to be expressed now that I have given it this hope, or a foretaste.

Why this disorder, this derailment, this distraction? Once again – after managing to come up with the little prose poem on pages 91 – 95 – I recalled Paulhan’s statement: “From now on, the prose poem is no longer for you . . .” and I wanted to make this prose poem into one done in verse. While instead I should have taken apart the prose poem to integrate its interesting elements into my objective relations (sic) with the pine woods.

Paulhan was certainly right. But my intention here is not to make a poem, rather to move ahead in the understanding and expression of the pine woods, to gain something for myself there – instead of beating my brains out and wasting my time over it as I’ve done.

NOTE

In passing I must note a problem to think through again when I have the leisure: that of the difference between knowledge and expression (relationship and difference). It’s a vast problem, as I’ve just realized. In brief, this is what I mean to say: the difference between the expression of the concrete, the visible, and the knowledge or expression of the idea, of the essential differentiating and comparative quality of the subject. To put it more cogently: in some poems (all of them botched): the frog, the dancer, particularly the bird, the wasp nest, and this last (the sunlight in the pine woods), I practice expressionism (?), I mean that after rediscovering them, I employ the most precise words to describe the subject. But my intention is something other than that: it’s the basic understanding of the pine woods, by that I mean the isolation of the inherent distinguishing qualities of these woods, and what I have called its lesson. To me these seem to be two quite different things, though ordinarily at the far limits of perfection for each one, they must come together again...

So let’s return as quickly as possible to the search for everything that can be said about pine woods and only of them.

Here again there are distinctions:

Primo, it is clear that the woods or the forest each have a particular quality and that I often tend to stray on this point.

But this time I won’t go seriously astray for the pine woods clearly possess all the qualities of the woods and forests in general, plus individual features as pine woods. Just realizing that is enough to keep me from straying too far.

(In fact, if I do stray off in my pine woods, that will be only half bad, it will even be a good thing, for the woods are clearly propitious places for erring, or for error, there’s some labyrinth in all woods.)

Secundo, there are qualities inherent to the pine, and qualities particular to the pine as a part of pine woods. The pine differs according to whether it lives in isolation or in society. It differs also according to whether it is situated in the interior or at the fringe of the woods of which it is a part. And I rather like those pines at the edge, held to certain sacrifices in their parts turned toward the woods, but free to develop as they please to the side facing the fields, the void, the un-wooded world.

The function of bordering their society falls to them, to conceal the arcana, to conceal the interior nakedness (the austerity, the sacrifice, the lack) through the spread of their lower parts: they must be less exigent about

They are permitted to maintain the memory and display of their earlier outgrowths. They even live through these outer tips as much as through their peaks (oh how badly I’m saying this).

September 3, 1940

If the individuals on the fringes (orée, fringes or lisière, forest edge: words to verify in the Littré) do a pretty fair job of hiding the interior from the eyes of the exterior, they fail quite badly at hiding the exterior from the eyes of the interior. They behave like a glass partition, or rather (since they aren’t translucent) like a partition of cloth, of stone, or of carved wood.

When the wood is vast or dense enough, from its core the sky cannot be seen laterally, one must move towards the fringe, to the point where the partition no longer appears impervious. Now there’s something that would be sublime if put to use in a cathedral: a forest of columns such that one would progressively reach total obscurity (the crypt).

And yet this is truly more or less what is realized in the woods, for though ultimately there is no wall, the monument breathes through all its pores in the very midst of nature, better than a lung, as though with gills.

It could even be said that this should be a criterion of achievement, the mark of this genre of architecture: the point where total obscurity would be realized, taking into account for example that between each column there must be allowance for a space of x width, to accommodate easy strolling, etc.

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.

September 4, 1940

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.

September 9, 1940

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).

Mère branche. Mother branch: terminal branch.

One mustn’t grow attached to the branches (to what is not essential).

Branche gourmande. Glutton branch: the one that takes up too much space.

Branches de charpente. Main branches: the main shoots of a tree or bush, which support the smaller and fruiting branches.

Proverb: “Better to cling to the trunk of the tree than to its branches.”

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

			timber over underbrush
“	40-60 years	”	demi-futaie
			half-timber
“	60-120 years	”	jeune haute futaie
			young high timber
“	120-200 years	”	haute futaie
			high timber
“	200 years	”	haute futaie sur le retour
			high timber past its prime.

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

APPENDIX TO “THE PINE WOODS NOTEBOOK”

I. ADDENDA

The preceding text was written, beginning on August 7, 1940, in a wood near La Suchère, a hamlet in the Haute-Loire where the author, after a month and a half of exodus along the roads of France, had just been reunited with his family. The author remained in La Suchère for almost two months, but in this same pocket notebook which constituted his only stock of paper at the time, nothing was written but the above text and the few notes that follow, entered as addenda on the dates indicated.

August 6, 1940

“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.

August 20, 1940

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 . . .

But some failing prevents me from doing that, not solely laziness or fear of its difficulty: it seems to me I couldn’t interest myself exclusively, much as I should, and successively, in anyone of those subjects. It seems to me that upon undertaking anyone of them, I’d instantly sense that it wasn’t essential, that it would be a waste of my time.

And it’s to “the pine woods” that I instinctively return, to the subject that totally preoccupies me, that monopolizes my personality, that brings my whole being into play. This is one of the few subjects in which I’ll invest (or lose) myself entirely: a bit like a scholar in his chosen research.

It’s not a relating, an account, or a description, but a conquest.

Later, the same day

Something important (to remember) in my conversation today with Jacques Babut, the pastor.

We had already gone beyond the point where our doctrines part: mine trusting in man, his forever refusing him any trust. We were talking of what he calls the Kingdom of God, and to which I give another name. And he was telling me that according to the Scriptures, Redemption would not be achieved for any man until this Kingdom had come about (that squares fairly well with my own theory) . . . “Moreover,” he said to me, “this Kingdom must come universally, not only for men, but for things as well . . .” and he cited, I think, Saint Paul.

“Yes, things in the spirit of men,” I replied parenthetically.

And later, describing the new man of my own dreams, I told him that most likely this man would have the ability to ponder the essential problems much more freely – that of the ambient mystery, of speech as well, which particularly interests me (I added).

A new stage in my “thinking” dates from those moments of our conversation.

I begin to perceive with some degree of clarity how the two primary elements of my personality (?) come together in me: the poetic and the political.

Certainly the redemption of things (in the spirit of man) will be fully possible only when the redemption of man is a fait accompli. And now it is understandable to me why I work at preparing each of them at the same time.

. . . The birth in the human world of the simplest things, their accession by the spirit of man, the acquisition of corresponding qualities – a new world in which men and things together will enjoy harmonious relations: that is my poetic and political goal. “This might strike you as still somewhat hazy . . .” (I’ll have to get back to it.)

II. CORRESPONDENCE

The manuscript of The Pine Woods Notebook, abandoned on September 9, 1940, was entrusted by the author around the beginning of the following year to one of his friends, M.P.,³ then residing in Marseille, who wished to type it. One copy was soon sent to another friend, G.A., who, in touch with literary circles in the “free” zone, had inquired about the author’s recent production. When G.A. had read the text, the following correspondence ensued.

FROM G.A. TO THE AUTHOR

Marseille, March 7, 1941

. . . My articles in Le Figaro have provoked a group of young poets, who are now looking askew at me . . . But I’m not done yet: I gave Le Jour an article on the “poet’s craft” which will have the fanatics gnashing their teeth. I’ll send it on to you . . . And I’ve prepared another on inspiration stripped bare.

All of this (including the stripping) naturally brings me to your pine woods. Useless – no, useful – to tell you that I find this deeply intriguing . . . Yet I cannot help deploring that your “heroism” in facing the problem of expression nonetheless wound up leading you into a sort of impasse. For the outcome of your efforts runs too great a risk of becoming a quasi-scientific perfection which, for having undergone purification, tends towards a compendium of interchangeable materials. Each thing in itself, rigorously specific and followed through, is excellent. The whole becomes a patchwork. You see what I mean, even if badly stated.

The chimera lies in wishing to reinstate the object in its entirety. You’ll never manage to give more than an idea, a moment, of an object. (Not even, perhaps, if you should choose, instead of a pine woods – palpitating, evolving – an object as stable in appearance as the pebble, which is still nonetheless an infinitely changing organism.)

Have you repeated the “experience” of the pine woods in winter, in spring? Have you reflected that yours are pines of the area where you were living? The rigid pine with long vertical trunk (like the one they call pariccio in the forests of the Corsican mountains, from which they make masts for boats), but which has nothing in common with the wood of maritime pines from my coastline – twisted, tormented – nor with the majestic parasol pines in their chosen solitude – nor even the slender pines, pencil-drawn, from the inland regions of Provence or Attica?

Instead of “momentarying” the eternity of the thing-in-itself (could God himself do as much, O proud Francis, with that sublime outburst on what the pines owe you for having noticed them?), I believe that the artist cannot aspire for better than to eternalize the shared moment of the object and himself.

Humility? Most likely. But not without grandeur, and which already overlays a rather strong ambition.

All of this on the basis of your research. But the exposé, the revelation of the method, intrigues me still more . . .

. . . Here we’re in agreement! Do you remember the chapbook Poèmes en commun that I published a while back with C.S.? That was already an essay of this sort (mutatis mutandi). In it I alluded to a work I’ve never published, which I still have in my possession, unpublished: Genèse d’un poème (Genesis of a Poem).

What you did, before and during, step by step, word by word, for the Pine Woods, (somewhat like the Journal des faux monnayeurs (Journal of the Counterfeiters) for the novel), I did afterwards, retrospectively, for the Ballade du Dee-Why (which is in Antaeus) – like Dante’s commentary for the sonnets of the Vita Nova, or Poe’s for The Raven, etc.

I believe there are two related approaches here; each in its own way casts surprising light on the paths of creative imagination. If one could pick some journal to gather them in a sort of special issue, which might be called Birth of the Poem, for instance, with an introduction, a “head” (and right to the point, O mysterious correlation, my article on inspiration stripped bare aims at promoting studies of this sort), I believe this could be extremely interesting.

What do you think?

G.A.

FROM THE AUTHOR TO M.P.

Roanne, March 16, 1941

. . . My mind must be addled by springtime: the proposal I received from G.A. concerning The Pine Woods seems to have driven me half-mad. I’m sending you his letter. I really hadn’t expected such a use of this poor text. There are moments when I feel totally irritated (defensively) at the idea of being explained; others when that slacks off, and I feel discouraged, quite capable of letting it all go...

No! G.A. has (apparently) failed to understand that in this neck of the woods, it is much less a matter of the birth of a poem than an attempted assassination (far from successful) of a poem by its object.

Can I lend myself to such misinterpretation? Honestly, I don’t believe so.

Note that aside from that, I agree about the patchwork (though perhaps, since it has to do with a bath, I might have preferred mosaic).

In case you haven’t read it, find enclosed G.A.’s article in last Thursday’s Le Jour.

F.P.

P.S. (Two hours later) – Enclosed, projected reply. If you approve, drop it in the mailbox. Thanks. Without forgetting to enclose with it the Mémorial article for Louis le Cardonnel and Pierre de Nolhac.

FROM THE AUTHOR TO G.A.

Roanne, March 16, 1941

I read your article in Le Jour (so named in antithesis). I follow you up to the moment when it turns (somewhat vaguely in my opinion) positive.

Primo: Personally, whatever you may think and whatever most people think of it, I don’t believe I am answerable to your criticism, for I don’t consider myself a poet.

Secundo: In any case I maintain that every writer “worthy of the name” must write against everything that has been written before him (must in the sense of is forced to, is obliged to) – particularly against every existing rule. Actually, this is the way it has always been; I’m speaking of people with character.

It goes without saying, as you have clearly grasped, I am fiercely steeped in technique. But I am partial to one technique per poet, and even, ultimately, one technique per poem – as dictated by its object.

Thus, for The Pine Woods, if I may put it this way, isn’t the pine the tree that (during its lifetime) provides the most dead wood? . . .

The height of preciosity? – Most likely. But what else can I do? Once you’ve imagined this kind of difficulty, honor forbids evading it . . . (and anyway, it’s rather entertaining).

One thing more, about your series of articles (but I can’t attach too much importance to this): it seems to me that to propose right now what I’d call “measures of order” in poetry would play into the hands of those who proclaim that primo: “Up to the present there has been disorder,” and secundo: “We are the ones who impose order,” which exemplifies the fundamental hypocrisy of this period . . . No, don’t you see, in art (at least) there is, there must be, permanent revolution and terror; while in criticism, this is the moment to keep quiet, for want of the power to denounce the false values they claim to impose on us. On that score, and to show you the danger, I attach an article which appeared in the Mémorial de Saint-Étienne on the same day as yours in Le Jour.

This said, do for The Pine Woods exactly what seems best to you. Now you realize that in my mind it has nothing at all to do with the birth of a poem but rather an effort against “poetry.” And not, it goes without saying, in favor of the pine woods (I’m not altogether mad) but in favor of the mind and spirit, which could gain some lesson there, grasp some moral and logical secret (according to the universal “characteristic,” if you will).

F.P.

The Pine Woods remained unpublished. But here is another passage from a second letter addressed by the author to G.A. concerning the “poet’s craft”:

Roanne, July 22, 1941

. . . So then what do you mean by “poet’s craft”? As for me, I’m more and more convinced that my doings are more scientific than poetic. It is a matter of attaining clear formulas, on the order of: One gnawed mesh won the day. Patience and passage of time, etc.

I need some poetic magma, but only to rid myself of it.

I fiercely (and patiently) want to cleanse the mind and spirit of it. It is in that sense that I claim to be a combatant in the ranks of the enlightened, as they said in the great century (the 18th). Once again, it is a matter of plucking forbidden fruit, with all due deference to the powers of darkness, to God the unworthy in particular.

Much remains to be said about the obscurantism that threatens us, from Kierkegaard to Bergson and Rosenberg . . .

It’s not for naught that the bourgeoisie in ITS COMBAT of the 20th century extols a return to the Middle Ages.

I haven’t enough religiöses Gemüt to accept this passively. You neither? – Fine . . .

Faithfully yours,

F.P.

END OF APPENDIX
TO
“THE PINE WOODS NOTEBOOK”

APPENDIX TO “THE PINE WOODS NOTEBOOK”

I. ADDENDA

II. CORRESPONDENCE

FROM G.A. TO THE AUTHOR

FROM THE AUTHOR TO M.P.

FROM THE AUTHOR TO G.A.

EN MASSE

THE PLEASURE OF PINE WOODS

FORMATION OF A POETIC ABSCESS

NONE OF THIS SHOULD BE TAKEN SERIOUSLY