A Burning Man writes about Thomas Hardy

INSIGHT TREKS has landed in a lot of out-of-the-ordinary spots around the world.  And during the Kickstarter campaign, I was pleased to hear from old friends, former associates, colleagues, and you!
Several years ago, I spent an afternoon in conversation with Larry Harvey, the co-founder of the Burning Man festival. Sitting on a log in the pine forest that skirts the side of the sacred Buffalo Mountain in Banff National Park (upon which the Banff Centre for the Arts sits in the Rocky Mountains), Larry mused out loud and left me with lots to think about; I recorded his remarkable ideas, some of which are included here in a documentary radio series.
Larry, busy as he is with Burning Man, kindly wrote back after reviewing my ‘crowd funded’ request:
     “Your video reminded me of this passage from Thomas Hardy’s Return of the Native:

       “The wind, indeed, seemed made for the scene, as the scene seemed made for the hour. Part of its tone was quite special; what was heard there could be heard nowhere else. Gusts in innumerable series followed each other from the northwest, and when each one of them raced past the sound of its progress resolved into three. Treble, tenor, and bass notes were to be found therein. The general ricochet of the whole over pits and prominences had the gravest pitch of the chime. Next there could be heard the baritone buzz of a holly tree. Below these in force, above them in pitch, a dwindled voice strove hard at a husky tune, which was the peculiar local sound alluded to. Thinner and less immediately traceable than the other two, it was far more impressive than either. In it lay what may be called the linguistic peculiarity of the heath; and being audible nowhere on earth off a heath, it afforded a shadow of reason for the woman’s tenseness, which continued as unbroken as ever.

“Throughout the blowing of these plaintive November winds that note bore a great resemblance to the ruins of human song which remain to the throat of fourscore and ten. It was a worn whisper, dry and papery, and it brushed so distinctly across the ear that, by the accustomed, the material minutiae in which it originated could be realized as by touch. It was the united products of infinitesimal vegetable causes, and these were neither stems, leaves, fruit, blades, prickles, lichen, nor moss.

      “They were the mummied heathbells of the past summer, originally tender and purple, now washed colourless by Michaelmas rains, and dried to dead skins by October suns. So low was an individual sound from these that a combination of hundreds only just emerged from silence, and the myriads of the whole declivity reached the woman’s ear but as a shrivelled and intermittent recitative. Yet scarcely a single accent among the many afloat tonight could have such power to impress a listener with thoughts of its origin. One inwardly saw the infinity of those combined multitudes; and perceived that each of the tiny trumpets was seized on entered, scoured and emerged from by the wind as thoroughly as if it were as vast as a crater.”
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