His instinct still is to nail skulls and trophies to the sacred tree, deep in the forest.

The tree of life and death, tree of good and evil, tree of abstraction and of immense, mindless life; tree of everything except the spirit, spirituality.
But after bone-dry Sicily, and after the gibbering of myriad people all rattling their personalities, I am glad to be with the profound indifference of faceless trees.

Their rudimentariness cannot know why we care for the things we care for.

They have no faces, no minds and bowels: only deep, lustful roots stretching in earth, and vast, lissome life in air, and primeval individuality.

You can sacrifice the whole of your spirituality on their altar still.