by Jacqueline Winter Thomas
In some mysterious way woods have never seemed to me to be static things. In physical terms, I move through them; yet in metaphysical ones, they seem to move through me.
— John Fowles
She went for walks in the park and in the woods that joined the park, and enjoyed the solitude and mystery, kicked the brown leaves of autumn and picked the primroses of spring. But it was all like a dream; or rather, it was like the simulacrum of reality. The oak-leaves were to her like oak-leaves seen ruffling in a mirror, she herself was a figure somebody had read about, or memories, or words.
— D.H. Lawrence, Lady Chatterley’s Lover