The Remains Of The Day

The Remains Of The Day

A longing to wander tears my heart when I hear trees rustling in the wind at evening. If one listens to them silently for a long time, this longing reveals its kernel, its meaning. It is not so much a matter of escaping from one’s suffering, though it may seem to be so. It is a longing for home, for a memory of the mother, for new metaphors for life. It leads home. Every path leads homeward, every step is birth, every step is death, every grave is mother.

So the tree rustles in the evening, when we stand uneasy before our own childish thoughts: Trees have long thoughts, long-breathing and restful, just as they have longer lives than ours. They are wiser than we are, as long as we do not listen to them. But when we have learned how to listen to trees, then the brevity and the quickness and the childlike hastiness of our thoughts achieve an incomparable joy. Whoever has learned how to listen to trees no longer wants to be a tree. He wants to be nothing except what he is. That is home. That is happiness.
Herman Hesse

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One thought on “The Remains Of The Day

  1. This is a picture I both like and appreciate. It endorses the rest of your work. Often an artist can render well and illustrate well but not touch the subject except by shock or beautiful uglyness. One must be able to paint an apple to look as an apple, so we might have confidence in the dreams they paint. This is an apple, well done, very nice painting.

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