In the forest, man is transformed

The loin, the forest, the great forest, forms an infinity, a continent that has an ancient inquietude. It's more intimate, more impressive too. Passer outre craintes et tremblements and participants à la cérémonie qui s'y ordonne. The approach to the new ombres s'élève la beauté, celle des cathédrales d'avant les hommes, celle des bêtes antiques. Au bout du chemin du regard, se perdent la confusion des lisières, le treillis des épaisseurs de feuillages et des new pousses de printemps. Il n'est plus question de revenir sur ses pas ; l'attrait grandit, je me hate. Sauter un fossé, remonter la courte pente d'un talus, traverser les fouillis des ramures, s'égratigner: je me déracine, je me grise, je m'abstrais des souvenirs. Une fois passées les mailles couturées des taillis de ronciers à mûres qui enfoncent dans la terre leurs rameaux pour se reproduire, l'on parle bas, comme par crainte d'être surpris lors d'un échange secret. It is the place of confidence without voices. J'entre en résonance, je reçois la forest comme une grâce. À ce moment tout bascule, a frisson froid parcourt l'échine, the heart bat plus vite, the gorge is noue. L'agitation vous porte et ce que vous ressentez devient inexprimable. Sous les feuillées, the promeneur part pour un voyage sans return.

A fois pénétré ce vaisseau d'ombres, de l'ombre vaste, je suis envoûté et je perds toute idée, toute réflection, the esprit lavé je deviens animal. Sous l'arche des frondaisons j'avance, je m'impatiente, à chaque pas une forte odeur d'humus remonte, me saisit, me remue. In the forest, the man is transformed, exists autrement et les mots tombent en poussière. The march revêt un effet d'émerveillement, un sacré caractère, j'y retrouve une vie antérieure, celle venue de très loin. The forêt rajeunit, élève et attise the divin imaginaire. J'entends bruisser les syllabes des lumières, des sons, des odeurs qui échangent entre eux et moi, je ne suis plus le même, je suis celui d'avant, le primitif, et mes nerfs frissonnent. S'ouvrent devant moi les profondeurs de la terre soulevées vers le ciel. If the bonds are in the treasure trouées de verdure, you will have an instant court, quelques seconds, une éternité. Pris d'une bouffée délirante, j'accompagne les substances térébrantes, elles sont baume, remède à toute détresse, à tout état de mélancolie, à tout voyageur lassé. S'abandonner à ce temps offered. It's in the forest to make noise. Chaque movement entraine des forces, ranime la sève de l'âme. Les frissons and les éclats de soleil dans les branches sauvent. The lumière varies in size and also finishes the game with les ténèbres. L'être solitaire y trouve ses reprises, l'abandon, son énergie. Les beaux jours Venus, the apparatus of a châtaignier peut y suffire. If the gel or the grêle is not pas mordu ses rameaux, sa couronne de fleurs, the or des chants dans son ample robe de feuilles aux bords dentés vous rajeunit et vous fait oublier toute peine.

Les forms noueuses d'un arbre à terre, foudroyé ou terrassé de vieillesse, posent une énigme comme son tronc nécrosé, où l'on peut lire les étapes de sa vie d'arbre, les efforts de chaque phase de sa croissance. Source? Trente ans, quarante ans ? Plus, beaucoup plus, a siècle, deux, peut-être trois répond l'aubier. Source importance, the vécu, it is au sol, allongé comme tout être tombé. Membres morts, cime décapitée, branches affaissées, lui croît encore. The mousse, the lichens prolongent son éternité, d'invisibles insectes y ont pris vie, s'y sont installés et s'y plaisent. The structure of the white ascète is beautiful and splendid. The grave of the signs in the rides of the son. Regrette-t-il, comme les humains, le temps passé, le temps de naguère ? Celui des crêtes chevelues, des futaies élancées plantées pour les mâts d'une marine royale. La grandeur même, le grand art. Les chênes dans leur nudité de l'winter montent droit en toute puissance, sans oscillation, en correspondance vers le ciel, ils se entnent dans une military posture. Emmenés dans leur course vers la lumière par des hêtres, escortes aux troncs rudes, aux écorces d'argent, ceux des incorruptibles, des éminences, ils s'élèvent à la verticale, colonnes où les ondes vibrent et résonnent jusqu'à leur flèche. Ils ne s'encombrent d'aucune branche basse, leur tronc solid n'a pas d'âge. You can hear the noise from the big vent days. Entrenus, with the aid and the sons of the main man, the cells of the forestiers who are veillent, are on the fierté humble of the sovereigns. The mousses d'un doux velors vert tapissent leur partie basse, d'autres plus cendrées prospèrent à hauteur d'homme. Il arrive qu'elles se recouvrent en un feston noueux sur le tronc raboteux et forment un paysage soudain dans la danse d'un rayon solarire qui filtre au travers d'un moucharabieh de feuilles.

Tout à coup, sous la voûte d'une cavée de fines ramilles, un bruissement m'extrait de la torpeur, la saillie du corps loud d'un cerf ouvre la voie à deux biches. Les three animals, en file, fissurent l'air, percent les broussailles. Ils ont déjà disparu dans les allées de summer et je ne sais plus si je les ai vraiment vus. This apparition furtive, moment immaterial qui anime l'esprit, n'appartient qu'à celui qui l'a saisi. Ne pas reprendre son souffle, parcourir les sentiers, écarter les hautes fougères. Attendre la découverte d'une ruine mangée de mousse que l'on ne trouve pas encore. At the end of a chemin, there is a menhir with a stone at the angle of an ancient woman. If you délabré dans ces roches déshabitées, peut-être de la défaite. The impossible and the grandeur.

Franck Maubert Natural history (Mercure de France, 2022).

From a distance, the vast forest forms an infinity, a continent where an ancient unease simmers. It can be intimidating, even terrifying. Overcoming fear and trembling, one participates in the ceremony held there. As one approaches this cloud of shadows, beauty rises, the beauty of cathedrals from a time before humankind and the beauty of prehistoric animals. At the end of the sweeping gaze, they are lost: the confusion of the forest edges, the tangle of leaf layers, and the new shoots of spring. There is no turning back to one's own path; the pull grows, I accelerate. Leaping over a ditch, climbing the short slope of an embankment, walking through the tangle of branches, scratching myself: I uproot myself, I intoxicate myself, I abstract from memories. Once you've passed through the tangled web of brambles, their branches driving their way into the earth to propagate, you speak softly, as if afraid of being caught in a secret meeting. This is the place for confidential conversation, without a voice being heard. I resonate with the forest, receiving it as a blessing. In that moment, everything shifts, a cold shiver runs down your spine, your heart races, your throat tightens. Unease grips you—and what you feel defies description. Beneath the canopy, the walker embarks on a journey of no return.

As soon as I step onto this ship of shadows, this vast expanse of shadow, I am enchanted and forget all ideas, all considerations; my mind is cleansed, I become an animal. Beneath the arch of the deciduous trees, I stride forward, growing impatient. A strong scent of humus rises with every step, seizing me, stirring me. In the forest, man is transformed; he exists in a different way, and words crumble to dust. Walking has a wondrous quality, a sacred character; I rediscover a former life, one that came from afar. The forest rejuvenates, intensifies, and ignites the divine imagination. I hear the syllables of the lights, sounds and scents rustling, exchanging between them and me. I am no longer the same; I am the one from before, the primitive, and my nerves tingle. Before me, the depths of the earth open up, rising to the heavens. I leap through the green breaches; for a brief moment, I fly, a few seconds, an eternity. In my delirium, I am accompanied by intoxicating substances; they are balm, a remedy for every distress, every state of melancholy, every weary traveler. To surrender to this gift of time. A single step in the forest dispels the tears. Every movement awakens strength, revitalizes the lifeblood. The chill and the sunbeams in the branches are salvation. The light endlessly varies, playing with the darkness. The solitary finds refuge here, solitude, energy. On beautiful days, the mere appearance of a chestnut tree can be enough. If frost or hail has not ravaged its branches, its crown of blossoms rejuvenates; the golden song in its broad canopy of leaves with their jagged edges rejuvenates you and makes all sorrow forgotten.

The gnarled forms of a tree lying on the ground, struck by lightning or felled by old age, pose as many riddles as its necrotic trunk, on which one can read the stages of its life as a tree, the exertions of each phase of its growth. How old is it? Thirty years, forty years? More, much more, a century or two, perhaps three, answers the sapwood. What does it matter? It has lived, it lies on the ground, stretched out like any fallen creature. With dead limbs, decapitated crowns, and drooping branches, it still grows. Mosses and lichens prolong its eternity; invisible insects have settled within it, feel at home there. Its bare form, like a bleached ascetic, is beauty and splendor. A longing to carve signs into the folds of its bark. Does it yearn, like people, for the past, for the time of yesteryear? The time of the crests of hair, the slender trunks planted for the masts of a royal navy? True sublimity, the highest art. The oaks, in their winter bareness, rise vertically with full force, without wavering, in harmony with the sky, standing in a military stance. On their way to the light, they are accompanied by beeches, these companions with rough trunks and silvery bark, the trunks of the incorruptible, the eminences, and they rise into the vertical, pillars in which the waves vibrate and echo to their very roots. They are free of low branches, their strong trunks ageless. Only their leafy crowns sway on windy days. Tended with the help and care of the human hand, the hand of attentive foresters, they possess the humble pride of rulers. Mosses of soft, green velvet cover their lower parts, other, ash-gray mosses, thrive at head height. Sometimes they cover the rugged trunk in a gnarled garland pattern, and in the dance of a sunbeam penetrating a mashrabiya wooden lattice of leaves, they suddenly form a landscape.

Suddenly, beneath the vault of a cave made of fine branches, a rustling sound jolts me from my reverie. The protruding, heavy body of a stag clears the way for two hinds. The three animals form a line, tearing through the air and bursting through the undergrowth. They have already vanished back into the thicket, and I am no longer sure if I actually saw them. This fleeting apparition, an immaterial moment that animates the mind, belongs only to the one who has captured it. Not catching my breath, traversing the paths, pushing aside the tall ferns. Waiting for the discovery of a moss-eaten ruin that one has not yet found. Mistaking a menhir at a bend in the path for the cornerstone of an ancient dwelling. In these deserted rocks lies something of decay, perhaps defeat. Impossibility and grandeur. ¹

1. "In seventeen short texts, Franck Maubert, a tireless, solitary wanderer with keen senses, takes us into his reveries and his questions about the beauty of nature, seeking to understand some of its secrets. So many stories of trees, animals, rivers, flowers, stones… sky, light, earth, and people in whom roots grow. Whether entomologist, mycologist, fisherman, botanist, or simply strolling, the author observes everything around him with the same keenness and the same thirst for knowledge. He finds a thousand reasons to love nature. An invitation to connect with nature, where the sole driving force behind his walks is the pure joy of discovery and observation. In precise and poetic language, Franck Maubert here crafts an incredible ode to nature, a promise of a free world." (Translation of the publisher's announcement.)>>>