HUD HUDSON
This week she has been reading Martin Buber's
I and Thou.
(She also read his sad little book of autobiographical sketches,
Meetings, as well as his insightful The Way of Man.)
Here is a passage she enjoyed from I and Thou:
I contemplate a tree.
I can accept it as a picture: a
rigid pillar in a flood of light, or splashes of green
traversed by the gentleness of the
blue silver ground.
I can feel it as movement: the
flowing veins around the sturdy, striving core,
the sucking of the roots, the
breathing of the leaves, the infinite commerce with
earth and air--and the growing
itself in its darkness.
I can assign it to a species and
observe it as an instance,
with an eye to its construction
and its way of life.
I can overcome its uniqueness and
form so rigorously
that I recognize it only as an
expression of the law--those laws according to which
a constant opposition of forces is
continually adjusted,
or those laws according to which
the elements mix and separate.
I can dissolve it into a number,
into a pure relation
between numbers, and eternalize
it.
Throughout all of this the tree
remains my object
and has its place and its time
span, its kind and condition.
But it can also happen, if will
and grace are joined,
that as I contemplate the tree I
am drawn into a relation,
and the tree ceases to be an It.
The power of exclusiveness has seized me.
This does not require me to forego
any of the modes of contemplation.
There is nothing that I must not
see in order to see, and there is no knowledge
that I must forget. Rather is
everything, picture and movement, species and instance,
law and number included and
inseparably fused.
Whatever belongs to the tree is
included: its form and its mechanics,
its colors and its chemistry, its
conversation with the elements
and its conversation with the
stars--all this in its entirety.
The tree is no impression, no play
of my imagination, no aspect of a mood;
it confronts me bodily and has to
deal with me as I must deal with it--only differently.
One should not try to dilute the
meaning of the relation: relation is reciprocity.
Does the tree then have
consciousness, similar to our own?
I have no experience of that. But
thinking that you have brought this off
in your own case, must you again
divide the indivisible?
What I encounter is neither the
soul of a tree nor a dryad, but the tree itself.
***
Any comments you might have for Xerxes
can be sent to Hud[dot]Hudson[at]wwu[dot]edu.
I will see to it that she receives them.
***
Xerxes' Freshman Year
Last week Xerxes was reading Allan Chinen's
Once Upon a Midlife
The week before Xerxes was reading G.K. Chesterton's
St Francis of Assisi
The week before Xerxes was
reading Jean Toomer's
Cane
The week before Xerxes was reading
Ikhwān al-Safā's
The Animals' Lawsuit against Humanity
The week before Xerxes was reading Patrick Süskind’s Perfume
The week before Xerxes was reading Lewis Carroll's The Hunting of the
Snark
The week before Xerxes was reading John Milton's Paradise Regained
The week before Xerxes was reading Dylan Thomas's The Force that
Through the Green Fuse Drives the Flower
The week before Xerxes was reading Stephen Crane's The Blue Hotel
The week before Xerxes was reading Gore Vidal's Creation
The week before Xerxes was reading A.S. Byatt's Possession
The week before Xerxes was reading C.S. Lewis's The Great Divorce
The week before Xerxes was reading Mitch Albom's The Five People You
Meet in Heaven
The week before Xerxes was reading Dennis Potter's Blackeyes
The week before Xerxes was reading David Suzuki and Wayne Grady's
Tree: A Life Story
The week before Xerxes was reading James Hogg's Confessions of a
Justified Sinner
The week before Xerxes was reading Alexander Theroux's Theroux
Metaphrastes
The week before Xerxes was reading Mervyn Peake's Titus Alone
The week before Xerxes was reading Mervyn Peake's Gormenghast
The week before Xerxes was reading Mervyn Peake's Titus
Groan
The week before Xerxes was reading Walter de la Mare's
The Three Royal Monkeys
The week before Xerxes was reading John Collier's His Monkey Wife
The week before Xerxes was reading Lois Lowry's The Giver
The week before Xerxes was reading Rudyard Kipling's Mandalay
The week before Xerxes was reading Ralph Helfer's Modoc
The week before Xerxes was reading Stuart McLean's Home
From the Vinyl Cafe
The week before Xerxes was reading Ossie Davis's Purlie Victorious
The week before Xerxes was reading George MacDonald's The Portent
The week before Xerxes was reading Tom Stoppard's Rosencrantz &
Guildenstern are Dead
The week before Xerxes was reading Michael Phillips's George MacDonald
- A Biography
The week before Xerxes was reading Christopher Moore's The Stupidest
Angel
The week before Xerxes was reading Gordon Lightfoot's Minstrel of the
Dawn
The week before Xerxes was reading Sun Tzu's The Art of War
The week before Xerxes was reading Robert Graves's I Claudius
The week before Xerxes was reading Philip Ardagh's A House Called
Awful End
The week before Xerxes was reading John Milton's Paradise Lost
The week before Xerxes was reading Mervyn Peake's Mr Pye
The week before Xerxes was reading J. K. Rowling's Harry Potter and the
Deathly Hallows
The week before Xerxes was reading Riff Raff and Magenta's The Time
Warp
The week before Xerxes was reading William Shakespeare's Timon of
Athens
The week before Xerxes was reading J.R.R. Tolkien's The Silmarillion
The week before Xerxes was reading e.e. cummings's anyone lived in a
pretty how town
The week before Xerxes was reading Sir Thomas Browne's Religio Medici
The week before Xerxes was reading C.S. Lewis's A Preface to Paradise
Lost
The week before Xerxes was reading Stephanie Plowman's The Road
to Sardis
The week before Xerxes was reading Alexander Theroux's Darconville's
Cat
The week before Xerxes was reading Dennis Potter's The Singing Detective
The week before Xerxes was reading T.S. Eliot's The Love Song of J.
Alfred Prufrock
The week before Xerxes was reading Matthew Scully's Dominion
The week before Xerxes was reading Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian
Gray
The week before Xerxes was reading the Prologue in Heaven from
Goethe's Faust
The week before Xerxes was reading Christina Rossetti's Goblin
Market