never fully comprehensible...

.... I see trees, the wood, as the best analogue of prose fiction. All novels are also, in some way, exercises in attaining freedom - even when, at an extreme, they deny the possibility of its existence. Some such process of retreat from the normal world - however much the theme and surface is to be of the normal world - is inherent in any act of artistic creation, let alone that specific kind of writing that deals in imaginary situations and characters. And a part of that retreat must always be into a 'wild', or ordinarily repressed and socially hidden self: into a place always a complexity beyond daily (or artistic) reality, never fully comprehensible, mappable, explicable, eternally more potential than realized, yet where no one will ever penetrate as far as we have. It is our passage, our mystery alone, however miserable the account that is brought out for the world to see or hear or read second-hand.

- John Fowles, The Trees