The Tree — Ernst Jünger
First printed as a private print in 1962 in "Trees" by A. Renger-Patsch
In every language, there is a treasure of words that define its essence. Poetry lives from these words. Like the ringing of a bell, they evoke a resonance in the human spirit. One such word is "tree."
The tree is one of the great symbols of life, perhaps the greatest. Throughout time, it has been admired, honored, and even revered by people and nations. Its height and depth, centuries-old age, majestic, sheltering growth, all appeared venerable.
Persian kings adorned old plane trees with golden chains and assigned caretakers to their service. In ancient oaks, the Germanic peoples worshipped the All-Father, viewing the universe as an ash tree. From the crowns of the winter oak, the druids cut the mistletoe leaves with a golden sickle to crown the horns of white bulls; the yew tree, as the tree of the dead, shielded the graves of Celtic cemeteries. In the rustling of the sacred grove of Dodona, the priestesses heard the voice and counsel of Zeus, the supreme god. They praised him as they circled around:
"Zeus was, Zeus is, Zeus will be, O mighty Zeus, you!"
Even today, in a world stripped of its gods, we feel a sense of awe when we hear the wind's coming and going in the forest, sometimes barely rustling the leaves, and then playing upon the tall trunks as though on the strings of a weather harp. Something ancient and long forgotten awakens in us, touched even more deeply than by the sound of an organ.
Above the treetops, the coming and going drifts
like a breath drawing in and swelling full and roaring,
and moves on –
and becomes still –
and rushes.
So wrote Peter Hille, a homeless and long-forgotten poet who often sought refuge in the forest, the "mossy dreamer." Like many before and after him, he sought comfort and freedom in the woods during his life. Brother Human has often left us, but Brother Tree never has.
What was it that comforted us in this rustling? In vain we try to recall the consolation, when "over all the hilltops" there is peace and the song is silenced. We search in vain in the bright light to interpret the dream; we do not find the solution. We must descend again into the night — it waits for us there. The poet senses it:
"Wait a while: soon
you too will rest."
Does the tree belong to the paternal or maternal world? This cannot be answered in a single sentence. Just as we attribute height to the father, we may attribute depth to the mother. Beneath the crown, we find shelter, but in the network of roots, we find security. The branches spread like arms reaching towards the sky, while the roots take hold in the earth.
To the eye, what breathes in the light is visible, while what feeds on the earth’s juices remains hidden. Yet it is the power of the same being, gaining height here and depth there. What we see in the height and what the depth conceals both stem from one point and share the day and night like image and reflection.
Image and reflection seek to reveal a miracle in their unfolding; they point to a being that defines dimensions. When we walk through the forest, when we contemplate an old tree, there is always a third presence that unites image and eye, height and depth.
Since ancient times, humans have taken the tree as a model when reflecting on their coming and going. When remembering those who came before, we descend in spirit to the roots. There dwell the ancestors, whose image soon fades into myth and then into humus. Where the fathers and ancestors are honored, so too is the tree nurtured.
When a person sees the light, a new eye opens on the tree of life. Many came before him, resting in the earth, and many will strive for the light after him. Soon, he too will join the ancestors, becoming an ancestor and progenitor himself, for the life of the individual is short, as the Psalms lament; it is like grass mowed in the evening or a grain of sand that falls through the hourglass. Yet in him, the family tree and the genealogy intersect as roots and branches of the great lineage that fades into the darkness of time.
The tree of life, like the hourglass, is a symbol of time intersecting with the timeless—there lies the waist, the root collar. That is the point we call the moment; we see the past spreading below and the future above.
In the tree, we admire the power of the archetype. We sense that not only life but the universe expands in time and space according to this pattern. It repeats itself wherever we look, down to the design of the smallest leaf, down to the lines on the hand. Rivers follow this model as they flow from the watershed to the sea, as do the currents of blood in light and dark veins, crystals in fissures, and corals in the reef.
In the archetype, the incomprehensible is intuited, which unfolds in appearance. The moment holds and conceals the eternal, much like the material axis of the wheel hides the mathematical one. The abundance of time is nourished by the timeless, and change is fed by the motionless. Thus, the unfolding of even the smallest seed is ultimately organized around something without dimension—not around a spermic, but a pneumatic point. Only from this point do up and down, right and left, network and branch, life and death arise. This is a miracle that can only be grasped through analogy, like the parable of the mustard seed.
The tree as an archetype appears not only as the tree of life but also as the world tree. We see it in all elements: in stone, in the river, in fire, and even in the starry sky.
It is therefore not surprising that, in the plant world, the tree does not represent a crown achieved through long and arduous ascent. Humanity, perhaps all too humanly, is seen as the pinnacle and crown of the living world.
No, many species aspire to the tree and represent it in their own way. The oak, the pine, the dragon tree, the eucalyptus are "trees in themselves"; they are trees by essence, not by species, more related in spirit than in blood. Essentially, every plant contains the potential to become a tree. Even in the mushroom, which sprouts overnight from the mycelium, the principle is embodied. Plant families that we only know as herbs, like ferns and horsetails, produce or once produced trees and forests in other regions or times. Grasses like the papyrus reed can easily be imagined as trees. Some woody plants, such as lilacs and pussy willows, grow as either shrubs or trees. In a garden near Jericho this spring, I was surprised by the sight of a large tree cascading with violet blossoms. It was a bougainvillea, which I had only known as a climbing plant. Furthermore, in deserts, mountains, or the far north, trees shrink into bush or dwarf forms, as our birch does in the Lapland bogs. Finally, gardeners can transform shrubs into trees by pruning the side shoots, or conversely, turn trees into shrubs by trimming their tops.
If we still maintain a clear concept of a tree despite all this, it is because our imagination aligns with nature. Our idea of a tree is closely tied to what the ancients called physiognomy. We see the tree as a form in which nature gains individuality or, better yet, personality; its growth testifies to life in a higher sense than the purely vegetative or even zoological. With this, the perception of dignity and the reverence it commands immediately arise.
Botanists continued to distinguish trees and shrubs from herbs and perennials until the end of the 17th century. It was only the keen insight of Linnaeus that, like many other distinctions, recognized this separation as insignificant. In neither his natural nor artificial system did he acknowledge tree growth as a defining characteristic of a species.
This does not affect the physiognomic distinction. We instinctively know what to recognize as a tree and what not. The tiny pine, which the Japanese cultivates in a dish from ancestor to grandchild, is a tree—yet the towering shaft in the bamboo thicket is not. The Italian poplar is a tree, even though it divides into multiple branches at ground level, like flames from a fire. Even where the tree doubles or multiplies above the root collar, it maintains its individuality in contrast to the shrub. We refer to its trunks as twins or brothers. Such formations are well-known in every landscape. Just as certain waterfalls are known as "The Seven Sisters," trees in forests or fields are often famous as "The Seven Brothers."
The question of the ideal form of a tree yields as many answers as there are trees in the forest. Psychology has made this one of its games. However, it would be better here, as with any physiognomic judgment, to speak of characterology, for the question of one's chosen tree is essentially a question of its inner growth and nature. The person chooses their totem image.
Here, too, it is possible to miss the forest for the trees. There is no ideal form of the tree; every species carries its own ideality within. If this were not the case, there would be no style in art. The human tendency and preference for certain plants and animals reveals a deeper statement than art itself—unless one sees art as the statement through which humanity represents its being. The essence of art remains anonymous. Whether one chooses height, depth, youth, age, grace, dignity, defiance, or sorrow; whether they are drawn to the crown, the canopy, the bouquet, the lance, the dome, or the pyramid; whether they choose the towering poplar, the alder by the swamp, the pine in the barren sand, the weeping ash, or the oak struck by lightning—all remain symbolic statements that reach down to the undifferentiated. There, the chorus of voices unites into the great echo of "That is you."
There are monoecious and dioecious trees: those that bear both male and female flowers simultaneously, like the alder and the chestnut, and others where the sexes are divided between the trees, so that one can speak of male and female individuals.
In the date palm, there is even a kind of individual affection. A female palm will long for a specific male palm and begin to wither, even though other male palms may be closer to her. The Arabs, who are as familiar with this tree as they are with their horses and camels, will not only hang male flower clusters carrying ripe pollen on the female palms but will often connect both trunks with a rope.
In addition to male and female flowers, nature also knows hermaphroditic flowers, and all these forms are combined and separated in various ways in the tree world. Botanists therefore distinguish several sexual variations from hermaphroditism to polygamy.
This is noteworthy as a reminder that gender belongs to secondary determinations and not to fundamental characteristics, as is confirmed not only by graphology and astrology but also by genetics. The tree, as such, is rooted deeper; it bears genders but is not itself gendered.
For this reason, no conclusive arguments can be drawn from the fact that the tree is masculine in some languages and feminine in others. While this is not entirely coincidental, much like the gender assigned to the sun or the moon, it reflects the people's expression of their nature, similar to how an individual chooses the ideal form of a tree. The assignment of gender in transitioning from one language to another is also revealing. For instance, images arbor becomes images arbre; this is particularly remarkable given the close relationship between the two words, and the fact that the Romans perceived the feminine aspect of the tree so strongly that they extended it even to species whose names ended in the masculine form.
Whoever thinks of the tree must not only consider the roots but also the forest. The forest is an extension of the tree; thus, one can imagine a tree without a forest, but not a forest without trees.
However, the forest is not just a mere multiplication or simple gathering of trees; it changes the form and life of the individuals. While composed of trees, it in turn influences their development. The selection process becomes more rigorous, as it does in the wild; particularly in primeval and mixed forests, species struggle for space and light. For every thousand pollen grains, only one fertilizes, and for every thousand seeds, only one becomes a tree, and even that one remains threatened for a long time. In the dense fir forest, one might sometimes come across a young beech tree, which, having grown tall, bends its crown down to the ground. The image recalls a youth, a student, who has been overwhelmed.
On the other hand, the forest also provides safety. The crowns unite to form a canopy, which, although allowing rain to pass through, protects the ground from the sun. The trunks lose their side branches and grow straight upwards. This influences the overall appearance. For instance, a freestanding beech tree forms its crown close to the ground, whereas in a beech forest, the branches only begin to spread at a great height, resembling the pointed arches of Gothic columns reaching towards the leafy roof. Only the trees at the forest's edge extend their branches outward, down to the ground, forming a barrier alongside hedges against the wind, which sweeps over forests like it does over domes. Some forest islands, especially in the tropics, resemble a mighty tree themselves.
The forest thrives, giving back to the earth more than it takes. Year after year, blooming, it sheds leaves, branches, and eventually even trunks, weaving them into the humus where the heat of immense summers is stored. We still warm ourselves by the abundance of forests whose splendor no human eye has ever seen.
Only rarely does the forest's generosity concentrate in a single species, as with the Andean llama or the breadfruit tree of the South Seas, in such a way that the peoples sharing their homeland with these trees are nearly relieved of life's burdens. This reminds one of Hesiod's Golden Age, when the work of a single day sufficed to meet the needs of an entire year.
It is said that three breadfruit trees are enough to feed and clothe a family year-round, not to mention providing timber for huts, boats, and tools. There are other trees, like the date palm and the coconut palm, that make deserts and islands habitable, and still others without which entire lands and coasts would be impoverished — not for nothing was the olive tree considered a gift from the gods.
Yet more than the wealth and abundance of fruits, under which the branches bend, more than the gifts of wine, bread, sugar, and oil from the trees, humanity owes to the quiet growth that year after year, ring by ring, forms the tree's trunk. In wood, the protective and sheltering qualities of the tree are most openly revealed.
It is sometimes said that a "Wood Age" preceded the Stone Age. However, it is difficult to make such a distinction, for once the inventive spirit awoke in humans, everything had to become a tool to meet their needs: branches, pebbles, bones, horns, seashells, and fish bones. Wood and stone were early combined into simple tools, often with wood taking the leading role and stone providing the harder, more durable function. We can see this in the spears, arrows, axes, and knives of those early times. This pattern repeats in larger constructions, such as timber-framed buildings, where wood forms the framework and stone serves as the filling.
Just as animals clothe humans with their fur and wool, so wood not only warms us with fire but also envelops us with a protective covering. It serves as tables, boats, beds—where people rest, are conceived, born, and die—as cradles, and finally as coffins.
Even today, we feel truly "sheltered" in wood, whether in a paneled room with its old furniture or in the far north, where houses are still built from wood in the winter nights. Only there do we truly grasp the life of wood, its forest and tree spirit, its sylvan magic, which even the axe cannot destroy. It awakens in the fireplace, where the rings of the wood peel away like the pages of a nameless book above the glowing embers. At such moments, human memory reaches deep into the realm of the barely comprehensible, the undifferentiated.
Along the coasts and in the mountains of the forest-rich north, in its boathouses and alpine huts, memories also awaken of times when humans did not yet know how to cut wood and used fire to shape it instead. In those days, there were neither boards nor veneers, only the unsawn and unplaned trunk, used for blockhouses, dugout canoes, or coffins.
Wood weathers, but it does not lose its vital, giving force. For many, it seems more fitting as a final garment, a last covering, than the stone sarcophagus. In the phrase "Nos habebit humus" ("The earth will have us"), the trace of the human being is lost in a more anonymous and comforting way.
Yet, something imperishable remains. In ancient times, the coffin was called bara, a bier. The word is double-edged, as it not only refers to something that is carried but also to something that carries and bears. For this reason, among various distant peoples, the coffin was seen as a boat, a vessel for the cosmic journey.
In isolation, individuality stands out. If one wishes to admire a tree and its growth, like the Jupiter oak in the forest of Fontainebleau, one must allow it space.
In nature, all transitions from dense to less dense formations can be found—from the impenetrable primeval forest to the open grove, the forests of river plains, dry steppes, prairies, and savannas, to the scattered copses of the foothill regions, as described by Felix von Hornstein in his work on our forests and their history.
Perhaps the tree achieves its most beautiful effect among its kind in the sunlit clearings, where centuries-old stands have been preserved. There, the forest rises to a new power, uniting old experience and triumph. A sense of space- and time-conquering strength becomes palpable, much like in a senate or an assembly of kings.
Where the tree is spared in small groups with its undergrowth amid the fields, the cultivated land is invigorated. Here, we are often surprised by the sight of plants and animals that still find shelter, food, and protection in these last islands of wilderness.
The row is less a transition to isolation than its intensification. Its appearance evokes the idea of a boundary, often a protected one. In nature, we find such boundaries where chains of poplars, alders, and old willows line the streams and rivers, or in the delicate fringes of coconut palms that greet us from afar along tropical coasts.
As a builder, humans use the row to mark their territory and property. Napoleon marked bridges and military roads by planting poplars. Stately tree rows lead to castles, pilgrimage churches, and places where the people of great cities gather for leisure and entertainment; they cut through parklands and shade the avenues. Some of these avenues are famous for their length, age, and fourfold arrangement; often, they connected, like the Lindenallee of Herrenhäuser, the capital with the residence gardens.
In such arrangements, the idea of utility recedes. They belong to the princely aspect of humanity and its orders. Their purpose is to give the tree's appearance and grandeur space and to lead humans to places where greatness and festivity await, where they can be revered or find joy.
Since the tree demands reverence, it has the strongest presence where humans create the free space it deserves through their art. This cannot happen overnight. When someone plants a tree, they think of their grandchildren and great-grandchildren. This involves a caring intention that extends beyond daily consumption and quick use, reaching even beyond one’s own life and death. It continues to exist; we feel it in the tranquility and peace that blesses us in an old park. Our ancestors thought of us. We enter their realm, distancing ourselves from the circles of hunting, threatening time. We sense peace, even in decay. Nuthatches and woodpeckers nest in the hollow trunks; mushrooms inhabit the decaying wood, and reddish-brown dust trickles from the wormholes. We caress the bark of the old brother; he has witnessed tournaments and was already majestic when Columbus prepared the caravels. There is a stronger, dreamier life there, and our own life, with its temporal worries, becomes a dream. What may remain of them before another century passes?
When we protect and care for the tree, especially the old tree, after a time of unrestricted use, we are merely fulfilling our duty. This service is not akin to that of caring for an invalid, whom we grant a number of good days in the hospital before he rests. In essence, it is not we who protect the tree; it is the tree that grants us its protection. We are allowed to enter its realm. The old oak, the ancient lime, the old ash that we honor are symbols representing not only the tree of life but also the world tree. By refraining from touching them, we testify that the untouchable is honored and endures. This then gives our world and life order meaning and justice. Therefore, sacrifices had to be made in the past before a tree could be felled.
The protective power felt in the tree has been preserved where gods and ancestors are honored. In memory of a great person or a turning point in fate, we plant a tree. When we notice the crown of an old lime from afar, as here in Upper Swabia, we can be certain that it shades a statue of a saint or a crucifix and that it will fall victim to the storm or lightning before the axe.
Myths grasp both unity and opposition. They encompass the whole without neglecting details like science does. We must therefore see them stereoscopically. This applies where they attribute the tree alternately to the father and the mother, to the earth and to the gods. Both perspectives hold their meaning.
The tree is the son of the earth; hence, the priestesses in the grove of Dodona incorporated their praise of the supreme Zeus with that of Mother Earth:
Gaea brings forth fruits; therefore, honor the earth as our mother!
Humanity has always tried to understand becoming and passing through the analogy of the tree—not only its own fleeting life but also that of princely and divine lineages, hierarchies and dynasties, peoples and great empires. All this is driven forth by the eternally young earth, and everything returns to her. It is the great pattern through which the cycle of "die and become" is observed and by which Spengler approaches his comparative study of cultures. They sprout, bloom, bear fruit, age, and die inexplicably as thousand-year-old trunks, and the earth calls them back.
There is a reason we live in a time hostile to trees. Forests are dwindling, ancient trunks are falling, and this cannot be explained by economics alone. The economy is merely a contributing factor, acting in concert with a time of unprecedented waste. This corresponds to its two great tendencies: leveling and acceleration. The lofty must fall, and age loses its power. The tree in its height belongs to the father, and with it, many things valued by the father fall: the crown, the sword of war and justice, the sacred boundary, and the horse.
However, myth recognizes in the tree not only the tree of life but also the world tree. Rooted in the primordial ground, blooming in the cosmos, it brings forth stars and suns. Here, father and mother are united in eternal brilliance. This is the wood of life in the center of the Eternal City, where there is no separation, no sanctuary. Therefore, the ash Yggdrasil, under whose shade the gods gather daily to counsel, must not fall with them: it endures beyond destruction.