 CHAPTER XIII. THE DREAM WORLD Everybody takes his own dream seriously, but yawns at the breakfast table when somebody else begins to tell the adventures of the night before. I hesitate, therefore, to enter upon an account of my dreams, for it is a literary sin to bore the reader, and a scientific sin to report the facts of a far country with more regard to point and brevity than to complete the literal truth. The psychologists have trained a pack of theories and facts which they keep in leash, like so many bulldogs, and which they let loose upon us whenever we depart from the straight and narrow path of dream probability. One may not even tell an entertaining dream without being suspected of having liberally edited it, as if editing were one of the seven deadly sins instead of a useful and honorable occupation. Be it understood, then, that I am discoursing at my own breakfast table and that no scientific man is present to trip the autocrat. I used to wonder why scientific men and others were always asking me about my dreams, but I am not surprised now since I have discovered what some of them believe to be the ordinary wakening experience of one who is both deaf and blind. They think that I can know very little about objects even a few feet beyond the reach of my arms. Everything outside of myself, according to them, is a hazy blur. Trees, mountains, cities, the ocean, even the house I live in, are but fairy fabrications, misty unrealities. Therefore it is assumed that my dreams should have peculiar interest for the man of science. In some undefined way it is expected that they should reveal the world I dwell in to be flat, formless, colorless, without perspective, with little thickness and less solidity, a vast solitude of soundless space. But who shall put into words limitless, visionless, silent void? One should be a disembodied spirit indeed to make anything out of such insubstantial experiences. A world, or a dream for that matter, to be comprehensible to us, must, I should think, have a warp of substance woven into the wolf of fantasy. We cannot imagine even in dreams an object which has no counterpart in reality. Ghosts always resemble somebody, and if they do not appear themselves, their presence is indicated by circumstances with which we are perfectly familiar. During sleep we enter a strange mysterious realm which science has thus far not explored. Beyond the borderline of slumber the investigator may not pass with his common-sense rule and test. Sleep with softest touch locks all the gates of our physical senses and laws to rest the conscious will, the disciplinarian of our waking thoughts. Then the spirit wrenches itself free from the sinewy arms of reason, and like a winged coarser spurns the firm green earth and speeds away upon wind and cloud, leaving neither trace nor footprint by which science may track its flight and bring us knowledge of the distant shadowy country that we nightly visit. When we come back from the dream realm we can give no reasonable report of what we met there, but once across the border we fill at home as if we had always lived there and had never made any excursions into this rational, daylight world. My dreams do not seem to differ very much from the dreams of other people. Some of them are coherent and safely hitched to an event or a conclusion. Others are inconsequent and fantastic. All attest that in dreamland there is no such thing as a repose. We are always up and doing with a mind for any adventure. We act, strive, think, suffer, and are glad to no purpose. We leave outside the portals of sleep all troublesome incredulities and vexations, speculations as to probability. I float, wraith-like upon the clouds, in and out among the winds, without the faintest notion that I am doing anything unusual. In dreamland I find little that is altogether strange or wholly new to my experience. No matter what happens I am not astonished, however extraordinary the circumstances may be. I visit a foreign land where I have not been in reality and I converse with people whose language I have never heard. Yet we manage to understand each other perfectly. Into whatsoever situation or society my wanderings bring me there is the same homogeneity. If I happen into vagabondia I make merry with the jolly folk of the road or the tavern. I do not remember ever to have met persons with whom I could not at once communicate, or to have been shocked or surprised at the doings of my dream companions. In its strange wanderings in those dusky groves of slumberland my soul takes everything for granted and adapts itself to the wildest phantoms. I am seldom confused. Everything is as clear as day. I know events the instant they take place and wherever I turn my steps mind is my faithful guide and interpreter. I suppose everyone has had in a dream the exasperating, profitless experience of seeking something urgently desired at the moment, and the aching, weary sensation that follows each failure to track the thing to its hiding place. Sometimes with a singing dizziness in my head I climb and climb. I know not where or why. Yet I cannot quit the torturing, passionate endeavor, though again and again I reach out blindly for an object to hold to. Of course, according to the perversity of dreams, there is no object near. I clutch empty air and then I fall downward and still downward, and in the midst of the fall I dissolve into the atmosphere upon which I have been floating so precariously. Some of my dreams seem to be traced one within another like a series of concentric circles. In sleep I think I cannot sleep. I toss about in the toils of tasks unfinished. I decide to get up and read for a while. I know the shelf in my library where I keep the book I want. The book has no name, but I find it without difficulty. I settle myself comfortably in the Morris chair. The great book open on my knee. Not a word can I make out. The pages are utterly blank. I am not surprised, but keenly disappointed. I finger the pages. I bend over them lovingly. The tears fall on my hands. I shut the book quickly as the thought passes through my mind. The print will be all rubbed out if I get it wet. Yet there is no print tangible on the page. This morning I thought that I awoke. I was certain that I had overslept. I seized my watch, and sure enough it pointed to an hour after my rising time. I sprang up in the greatest hurry, knowing that breakfast was ready. I called my mother, who declared that my watch must be wrong. She was positive it could not be so late. I looked at my watch again, and lo! the hands wiggled, whirled, buzzed, and disappeared. I awoke more fully as my dismay grew until I was at the antipodes of sleep. Finally my eyes opened actually, and I knew that I had been dreaming. I had only waked into sleep. What is still more bewildering, there is no difference between the consciousness of the sham waking and that of the real one. It is fearful to think that all that we have ever seen, felt, read, and done may suddenly rise to our dream vision, as the sea casts up objects it has swallowed. I have held a little child in my arms in the midst of a riot, and spoken vehemently, imploring the Russian soldiers not to massacre the Jews. I have relived the agonizing scenes of the Sepoy rebellion and the French Revolution. Cities have burned before my eyes, and I have fought the flames until I fell exhausted. Holocausts overtake the world, and I struggle in vain to save my friends. Once in a dream a message came speeding over land and sea, that winter was descending upon the world from the North Pole, that the arctic zone was shifting to our mild climate. Far and wide the message flew. The ocean was congealed in mid-summer. Ships were held fast in the ice by thousands. The ships with large white cells were held fast. Riches of the Orient and the plenteous harvests of the Golden West might no more pass between nation and nation. For some time the trees and flowers grew on, despite the intense cold. Birds flew into the houses for safety, and those which winter had overtaken lay on the snow with wings spread in vain flight. At last the foliage and blossoms fell at the feet of winter. The petals of the flowers were turned to rubies and sapphires. The leaves froze into emeralds. The trees moaned and tossed their branches as the frost pierced them through bark and sap, pierced into their very roots. I shivered myself awake, and with a tumult of joy I breathed the many sweet morning odors, wakened by the summer sun. One need not visit an African jungle or an Indian forest to hunt the tiger. One can lie in bed amid downy pillows and dream tigers as terrible as any in the pathless wild. I was a little girl when one night I tried to cross the garden in front of my aunt's house in Alabama. I was in pursuit of a large cat with a great bushy tail. A few hours before he had clawed my little canary out of its cage and crunched it between his cruel teeth. I could not see the cat, but the thought in my mind was distinct. He is making for the high grass at the end of the garden. I'll get there first. I put my hand on the box border and ran swiftly along the path. When I reached the high grass, there was the cat gliding into the wavy tangle. I rushed forward and tried to seize him and take the bird from between his teeth. To my horror, a huge beast, not the cat at all, sprang out from the grass and his sinewy shoulder rubbed against me with palpitating strength. His ears stood up and quivered with anger. His eyes were hot. His nostrils were large and wet. His lips moved horribly. I knew it was a tiger, a real life tiger, and that I should be devoured. My little bird and I. I do not know what happened after that. The next important thing seldom happens in dreams. Sometime earlier I had a dream which made a vivid impression upon me. My aunt was weeping because she could not find me, but I took an embished pleasure in the thought that she and others were searching for me and making great noise which I felt through my feet. Suddenly the spirit of mischief gave way to uncertainty and fear. I felt cold, the air smelt like ice and salt. I tried to run, but the long grass tripped me and I fell forward on my face. I lay very still, filling with all my body. After a while my sensation seemed to be concentrated in my fingers and I perceived that the grass blades were sharp as knives and hurt my hands cruelly. I tried to get up cautiously so as to not cut myself on the sharp grass. I put down a tentative foot, much as my kitten treads for the first time the primeval forest in the backyard. All at once I felt the stealthy patter of something creeping, creeping, creeping purposefully toward me. I do not know how at that time the idea was in my mind. I had no words for intention or purpose. Yet it was precisely the evil intent and not the creeping animal that terrified me. I had no fear of living creatures. I loved my father's dogs, the frisky little calf, the gentle cows, the horses and mules that ate apples from my hand, and none of them had ever harmed me. I lay low, waiting in breathless terror for the creature to spring and bury its long claws in my flesh. I thought, they will feel like turkey claws. Something warm and wet touched my face. I shrieked, struck out frantically and awoke. Something was still struggling in my arms. I held on with might and main until I was exhausted. Then I loosened my hold. I found dear old Belle, the setter, shaking herself and looking at me reproachfully. She and I had gone to sleep together on the rug, and had naturally wandered to the dream forest, where dogs and little girls hunt wild game and have strange adventures. We encountered hosts of elf and foes, and it required all the dog tactics at Belle's command to acquit herself like the lady and huntress that she was. Belle had her dreams too. We used to lie under the trees and flowers in the old garden, and I used to laugh with delight when the magnolia leaves fell with little thuds, and Belle jumped up, thinking she had heard a partridge. She would pursue the leaf, point it, bring it back to me, and lay it at my feet with a humorous wag of her tail, as much as to say, this is the kind of bird that waked me. I made a chain for her neck out of the lovely blue polonia flowers and covered her with great heart-shaped leaves. Dear old Belle, she has long been dreaming among the lotus flowers and poppies of the dog's paradise. Certain dreams have haunted me since my childhood, one which recurs often precedes after this wise. A spirit seems to pass before my face. I feel an extreme heat like the blast from an engine. It is the disembodiment of evil. I must have had it first after the day that I nearly got burnt. Another spirit which visits me often brings a sensation of cool dampness, such as one fills on a chill November night when the window is open. The spirit stops just beyond my reach, sways back and forth like a creature in grief. My blood is chilled and seems to freeze in my veins. I try to move, but my body is still and I cannot even cry out. After a while the spirit passes on and I say to myself shudderingly, that was death. I wonder if he has taken her. The pronoun stands for my teacher. In my dreams I have sensations, odours, tastes, and ideas which I do not remember to have had in reality. Perhaps they are the glimpses which my mind catches through the veil of sleep of my earliest babyhood. I have heard the trampling of many waters. Sometimes a wonderful light visits me in sleep. Such a flash and glory as it is. I gaze and gaze until it vanishes. I smell and taste much as in my waking hours, but the sense of touch plays a less important part. In sleep I almost never grope. No one guides me. Even in a crowded street I am self-sufficient and I enjoy an independence quite foreign to my physical life. Now I seldom spell on my fingers and it is still rare for others to spell into my hand. My mind acts independent of my physical organs. I am delighted to be thus endowed, if only in sleep. For then my soul dons its winged sandals and joyfully joins the throng of happy beings who dwell beyond the reaches of bodily sense. The moral inconsistency of dreams is clearing. Mine grow less and less according with my proper principles. I am nightly hurled into an unethical medley of extremes. I must either defend another to the last drop of my blood or condemn him past all repenting. I commit murder, sleeping, to save the lives of others. I ascribe to those I love best acts and words which it mortifies me to remember and I cast reproach after reproach upon them. It is fortunate for our peace of mind that most wicked dreams are soon forgotten. Death, sudden and awful, strange loves and hates remorselessly pursued. Cunningly plotted revenge are seldom more than dim haunting recollections in the morning and during the day they are erased by the normal activities of the mind. Sometimes immediately on waking I am so vexed at the memory of a dream fracas I wish I may dream no more. With this wish distinctly before me I drop off again into a new turmoil of dreams. Oh, dreams, what opprobrium I heap upon you. You the most pointless things imaginable, saucy apes, brewers of odious contrasts, haunting birds of ill omen, mocking echoes, unseasonable reminders, oft returning vexations, skeletons in my morris chair, gestures in the tomb, deaths heads at the wedding feast, outlaws of the brain that every night defy the mind's police service, thieves of my Hesperidian apples, breakers of my domestic peace, murderers of sleep, old dreadful dreams that do fright my spirit from her propriety. No wonder that Hamlet preferred the ills he knew rather than run the risk of one dream vision. Yet remove the dream world and the losses inconceivable. The magic spell which binds poetry together is broken. The splendor of art and the soaring might of imagination are lessened because no phantom of fadeless sunsets and flowers urges onward to a goal. Gone is the mute permission or connivance which emboldens the soul to mock the limits of time and space. Forecast and gather in harvests of achievement for ages yet unborn. Blot out dreams and the blind lose one of their chief comforts. For in the visions of sleep they behold their belief in the seeing mind and their expectation of light beyond the blank, narrow night justified. Nay, our conception of immortality is shaken. Faith, the motive power of human life, flickers out. Before such vacancy and barrenness the shocks of wrecked worlds were indeed welcome. In truth dreams bring us the thought independently of us and in spite of us that the soul may write her nature shoot large sail on lengthening chord and rush exultant on the infinite. End of Chapter 13 Chapter 14 of The World I Live In This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The World I Live In by Helen Keller Chapter 14 Dreams and Reality It is astonishing to think how our real wide awake world revolves around the shadowy unrealities of dreamland. Despite all that we say about the inconsequence of dreams we often reason by them. We stake our greatest hopes upon them. Nay, we build upon them the fabric of an ideal world. I can recall few fine thoughtful poems, few noble works of art or any system of philosophy in which there is not evidence that dream fantasies symbolize truths concealed by phenomena. The fact that in dreams confusion reigns and illogical connections occur gives plausibility to the theory which Sir Arthur Mitchell and other scientific men hold, that our dream thinking is uncontrolled and undirected by the will. The will, the inhabiting and guiding power, finds rest and refreshment in sleep, while the mind, like a bark without rudder or compass, drifts aimlessly upon the uncharted sea. But curiously enough, these fantasies and intertwistings of thought are to be found in great imaginative poems like Spencer's Fairy Queen. Lam was impressed by the analogy between our dream thinking and the work of the imagination. Speaking of the episode in the Cave of Mammon, Lam wrote, It is not enough to say that the whole episode is a copy of the mind's conceptions in sleep. It is, in some sort, but what a copy. Let the most romantic of us that has been entertained all night by the spectacle of some wild and magnificent vision, recombine it in the morning and try it by his waking judgment. That which appeared so shifting and yet so coherent, when it came under cool examination, shall appear so reasonless and so unlinked that we are ashamed to have been so deluded and to have taken, though but in sleep, a monster for a God. The transitions in this episode are every wit as violent as the most extravagant dream, and yet the waking judgment ratifies them. Perhaps I feel more than others the analogy between the world of our waking life and the world of dreams because before I was taught I lived in a sort of perpetual dream. The testimony of parents and friends who watched me day after day is the only means that I have of knowing the actuality of those early, obscure years of my childhood. The physical acts of going to bed and waking in the morning alone make the transition from reality to dreamland. As near as I can tell, asleep or awake, I only felt with my body. I can recollect no process which I should now dignify with the term of thought. It is true that my bodily sensations were extremely acute, but beyond a crude connection with physical wants they are not associated or directed. They had little relation to each other, to me or to the experience of others. Idea, that which gives identity and continuity to experience, came into my sleeping and waking existence at the same moment with the awakening of self-consciousness. Before that moment my mind was in a state of anarchy in which meaningless sensations rioted, and if thought existed it was so vague and inconsequence it cannot be made a part of discourse. Yet before my education began I dreamed. I know that I must have dreamed because I recall no break in my tactual experiences. Things fell suddenly, heavily. I felt my clothing afire, or I fell into a tub of cold water. Once I smelt bananas and the odor in my nostrils was so vivid that in the morning before I was dressed I went to the sideboard to look for the bananas. There were no bananas and no odor of bananas anywhere. My life was in fact a dream throughout. The likeness between my waking state and the sleeping one is still marked. In both states I see but not with my eyes. I hear but not with my ears. I speak and am spoken to without the sound of a voice. I am moved to pleasure by visions of inethable beauty which I have never beheld in the physical world. Once in a dream I held in my hand a pearl. The one I saw in my dreams must therefore have been a creation of my imagination. It was a smooth, exquisitely molded crystal. As I gazed into its shimmering deeps my soul was flooded with an ecstasy of tenderness and I was filled with wonder as one who should for the first time look into the cool, sweet heart of a rose. My pearl was dew and fire, the velvety green of moss, the soft whiteness of lilies, and the distilled hues and sweetness of a thousand roses. It seemed to me the soul of beauty was dissolved in its crystal bosom. This beautyous vision strengthens my conviction that the world which the mind builds up out of countless subtle experiences and suggestions is fairer than the world of the senses. The splendor of the sunset my friends gaze at across the purpling hills is wonderful, but the sunset of the inner vision brings pure delight because it is the worshipful blending of all the beauty that we have known and desired. I believe that I am more fortunate in my dreams than most people, for as I think back over my dreams the pleasant ones seem to predominate, although we naturally recall most vividly until most eagerly the grotesque and fantastic adventures in slumberland. I have friends, however, whose dreams are always troubled and disturbed. They wake, fatigued, and bruised, and they tell me that they would give a kingdom for one dreamless night. There is one friend who declares that she has never had a felicitous dream in her life. The grind and worry of the day invade the sweet domain of sleep and weary her with incessant profitless effort. I feel sorry for this friend, and perhaps it is hardly fair to insist upon the pleasure of dreaming in the presence of one whose dream experience is so unhappy. Still, it is true that my dreams have uses as many and sweet as those of adversity. All my yearning for the strange, the weird, the ghostlike is gratified in dreams. They carry me out of the accustomed and common place. In a flash, in the winking of an eye, they snatch the burden from my shoulder, the trivial task from my hand, and the pain and disappointment from my heart, and I behold the lovely face of my dream. It dances round me with merry measure and darts hither and thither in happy abandon. Sudden, sweet fancy spring from every nook and corner, and delightful surprises meet me at every turn. A happy dream is more precious than gold and rubies. I like to think that in dreams we catch glimpses of a life larger than our own. We see it as a little child, or as a savage who visits a civilized nation. Thoughts are imparted to us far above our ordinary thinking. Feelings nobler and wiser than any we have known thrill us between heartbeats. For one fleeting night a princely your nature captures us, and we become as great as our aspirations. I dare say we return to the little world of our daily activities with as distorted a half memory of what we have seen as that of the African who visited England, and afterwards said he had been in a huge hill which carried him over great waters. The comprehensiveness of our thought, whether we are asleep or awake, no doubt depends largely upon our idiosyncrasies, constitution, habits, and mental capacity. But whatever may be the nature of our dreams, the mental processes that characterize them are analogous to those which go on when the mind is not held to attention by the will. End of Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Of The World I Live In This Libervox recording is in the public domain. The World I Live In By Helen Keller Chapter 15 Awaking Dream I have sat for hours in a sort of reverie, letting my mind have its way without inhibition and direction, and idly noted down the incessant beat of thought upon thought, image upon image. I have observed that my thoughts make all kinds of connections, wind in and out, trace concentric circles, and bring up in eddies of fantasy, just as in dreams. One day I had a literary frolic with a certain set of thoughts which dropped in for an afternoon call. I wrote for three or four hours as they arrived, and the resulting record is much like a dream. I found that the most disconnected, dissimilar thoughts came in, arm in arm. I dreamed a wide awake dream. The difference is that in waking dreams I can look back upon the endless succession of thoughts, while in the dreams of sleep I can recall but few ideas and images. I catch broken threads from the warp and woof of a pattern I cannot see, or glowing leaves which have floated on a slumber wind from a tree that I cannot identify. In this reverie I held the key to the company of ideas. I give my record of them to show what analogies exist between thoughts when they are not directed and the behavior of real dream thinking. I had an essay to write. I wanted my mind fresh and obedient and all its handmaidens ready to hold up my hands in the task. I intended to discourse learnedly upon my educational experiences, and I was unusually anxious to do my best. I had a working plan in my head for the essay, which was to be grave, wise, and abounding in ideas. Moreover, it was to have an academic flavor suggestive of sheepskin, and the reader was to be duly impressed with the austere dignity of cap and gown. I shut myself up in the study, resolved to beat out on the keys of my typewriter this immortal chapter of my life history. Alexander was no more confident of conquering Asia with the splendid army which his father Philip had disciplined than I was of finding my mental house in order and my thoughts obedient. My mind had had a long vacation, and I was now coming back to it in an hour that it looked not for me. My situation was similar to that of the master who went into a far country and expected on his homecoming to find everything as he left it. But returning he found his servants giving a party. Confusion was rampant. There was fiddling and dancing and the babble of many tongues so that the voice of the master could not be heard. Though he shouted and beat upon the gate, it remained closed. So it is with me. I sounded the trumpet loud and long, but the vassals of thought would not rally to my standard. Each had his arm round the waist of a fair partner, and I know not what wild tunes put life and metal into their heels. There was nothing to do. I looked about helplessly upon my great retinue and realized that it is not the possession of a thing, but the ability to use it which is a value. I settled back in my chair to watch the pageant. It was rather pleasant sitting there, idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean, watching my own thoughts at play. It was like thinking fine things to say without taking the trouble to write them. I felt like Alice in Wonderland when she ran at full speed with the Red Queen and never passed anything or got anywhere. The merry frolic went on madly. The dancers were all manners of thoughts. There were sad thoughts and happy thoughts, thoughts suited to every climb and weather, thoughts bearing the mark of every age and nation, silly thoughts and wise thoughts, thoughts of people, of things and of nothing, good thoughts, impish thoughts, and large gracious thoughts. There they went, swinging hand in hand in corkscrew fashion. An antique jester in green and gold led the dance. The guests followed no order or precedent. No two thoughts were related to each other even by the fortieth cousinship. There was not so much as an international alliance between them. Each thought behaved like a newly created poet. His mouth he could not ope, but there flew out a trope. Magical lyrics. Oh, if only I had written them down. Pel-Mell they came down the sequestered avenues of my mind, this merry throng. With back an old song and shout they came, and I hath not since beheld confusion worse confounded. Shut your eyes and see them come, the knights and ladies of my revel, plumed and turbant they come, clad in mail and silken broideries, gentle maids in quake or gray, gay princes and scarlet cloaks, coquettes with roses in their hair, monks and cows that might have covered the tall minster tower, demure little girls hugging paper dolls and rollicking schoolboys with ruddy morning faces, an absent-minded professor carrying his shoes under his arms and looking wise, followed by cronies, fairies, goblins, and all the troops just loosed from Noah's storm-tossed arc. They walked, they strutted, they soared, they swam, and some came in through fire. One sprite climbed up to the moon on a ladder made of leaves and frozen dew-drops. A peacock with a great hooked bill flew in and out among the branches of a pomegranate tree, pecking the rosy fruit. He screamed so loud that Apollo turned in his chariot aflame, and from his burnished bow shot golden arrows at him. This did not disturb the peacock in the least, for he spread his gem-like wings and flourished his wonderful, fire-tipped tail in the very face of the sun-god. Then came Venus, an exact copy of our own plaster cast, serene, calm-eyed, dancing high and disposedly, like Queen Elizabeth, surrounded by a troop of lovely cupids mounted on rose-tinted clouds, blown hither and thither by sweet winds, while all around danced flowers and streams and queer little Japanese cherry-trees in pots. They were followed by Jovial Pan with green hair and jeweled sandals, and by his side I could scarcely believe my eyes, walked a modest nun counting her beats. At a little distance were seen three dancers arm in arm, a lean, starved platitude, a rosy dimpled joke, and a still-ribbed sermon on predestination. Close upon them came a whole string of knights with wind-blown hair and days with faggots on their backs. All at once I saw the ample figure of life rise above the whirling mass holding a naked child in one hand and in the other a gleaming sword. A bear crouched at her feet, and all about her swirled and glowed a multitudinous host of tiny atoms which sang altogether. We are the will of God. Adam, wedded Adam, and chemical married chemical, and the cosmic dance went on in changing, changeless measure, until my head sang like a buzzsaw. Just as I was thinking I would leave this scene of phantoms and take a stroll in the quiet groves of slumber I noticed a commotion near one of the entrances to my enchanted palace. It was evident from the whispering and buzzing that went round that more celebrities had arrived. The first personage I saw was Homer, blind no more, leading by a golden chain, the white-beaked ships of the Akaians bobbing their heads and squawking like so many white swans. Plato and Mother Goose with the numerous children of the shoe came next. Simple Simon, Jill, and Jack, who had had his head mended, and the cat that fell into the cream. All these danced in a giddy reel while Plato solemnly discoursed on the laws of topsy-turvy land. Then followed grim visaged Calvin and violent crowned sweet-smiling Sappho, who danced a sha-tish. Aristophanes and Moyer joined for a measure, both talking at once, Moyer in Greek and Aristophanes in German. I thought this odd because it occurred to me that German was a dead language before Aristophanes was born. Bright-eyed Shelley brought in a fluttering lark which burst into the song of Chaucer's Chanticleer. Henry Esmond gave his hand in a stately minuet to Diana of the Crossways. He evidently did not understand her nineteenth-century wit, for he did not laugh. Perhaps he had lost his taste for clever women. Annan, Dante, and Swedenborg came together, conversing earnestly about things remote and mystical. Swedenborg said it was very warm. Dante replied that it might rain in the night. Suddenly there was a great clamour, and I found that the battle of the books had begun raging anew. Two figures entered in lively dispute. One was dressed in plain homespun, and the other wore a scholar's gown over a suit of motley. I gathered from their conversation that they were cotton-mather and William Shakespeare. Mather insisted that the witches in Macbeth should be caught and hanged. Shakespeare replied that the witches had already suffered enough at the hands of the commentators. They were pushed aside by the twelve nights of the round-table, who marched in bearing on a salver the goose that laid golden eggs. The Pope's mule and the golden bull had a combat of history and fiction such as I had read of in books, but never before witnessed. These little animals were put to route by a huge elephant which lumbered in with Rudyard Kipling, riding high on his trunk. The elephant changed suddenly to a rakish craft. I do not know what a rakish craft is, but this was very rakish and very crafty. It must have been abandoned long ago by wild pirates of the southern seas. For clinging to the rigging and jovially cheering as the ship went down, I made out a man with blazing eyes clad in a velveteen jacket. As the ship disappeared from sight, Falstaff rushed to the rescue of the lonely navigator and stole his purse. But Miranda persuaded him to give it back. Stevenson said, Who steals my purse, steals trash. Falstaff laughed and called this a good joke, as good as any he had heard in his day. This was the signal for a rushing swarm of quotations. They surged to and fro and in co-et throng of half-finished phrases, mutilated sentences, parodied sentiments, and brilliant metaphors. I could not distinguish any phrases or ideas of my own making. I saw a poor, ragged, shrunken sentence that might have been mine own, catch the wings of a fair idea, with the light of genius shining like a halo about its head. Ever and anon the dancers changed partners without invitation or permission. Thoughts fell in love at sight, married in a measure, and joined hands without previous courtship. An incongruity is the wedding of two thoughts, which have had no reasonable courtship, and marriages without wooing are apt to lead to domestic discord, even to the breaking up of an ancient, time-honored family. Among the wedded couples were certain similes hitherto inviolable in their bachelorhood and spinsterhood, and held in great respect. Their extraordinary proceedings nearly broke up the dance, but the fatuity of their union was evident to them, and they parted. Other similes seemed to have the habit of living in discord. They had been many times married and divorced. They belonged to the notorious society of mixed metaphors. A company of phantoms floated in and out, wearing tantalizing garments of oblivion. They seemed about to dance, then vanished. They reappeared half a dozen times, but never unveiled their faces. The imp, curiosity, pulled memory by the sleeve and said, Why do they run away? To strange navery. Outran memory to capture them. After a great deal of racing and puffing and collision it apprehended some of the fugitives and brought them in. But when it tore off their masks, low, some were disappointingly commonplace, and others were gypsy quotations trying to conceal the punctuation marks that belonged to them. Memory was much aggrieved to have had such a hard chase only to catch this sorry lot of graceless rogues. Into the rabble strode four stately giants who called themselves history, philosophy, law, and medicine. They seemed too solemn and imposing to join in a mask. But even as I gazed at these formidable guests, they all split into fragments which went whirling, dancing in divisions, subdivisions, resubdivisions of scientific nonsense. History split into philology, ethnology, anthropology, and mythology, and these again split finer than the splitting of hairs. Each specialty hugged its bit of knowledge and waltzed it round and round. The rest of the company began to nod and I felt drowsy myself. To put an end to the solemn gyrations a troupe of fairies mercifully waved poppies over us all. The mask faded, my head fell, and I started. Sleep had wakened me. At my elbow I found my old friend Bottom. Bottom, I said, I have had a dream past the wit of man to say what dream it was. Me thought I was, there is no man can tell what. The eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen. His hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor his heart to report what my dream was. End of Chapter 15 A Chant of Darkness From the World I Live In This Librivox recording is in the public domain. The World I Live In By Helen Keller A Chant of Darkness My wings are folded over mine ears, my wings are crossed over mine eyes, yet through their silver shade appears, and through their lulling plumes arise, a shape, a throng of sounds. Shelly's Prometheus Unbound A Chant of Darkness I dare not ask why we are reft of light, banished to our solitary aisles amid the unmeasured seas, or how our sight was nurtured to glorious vision, to fade and vanish and leave us in the dark alone. The secret of God is upon our tabernacle, into his mystery I dare not pry. Only this I know. With him is strength, with him is wisdom, and his wisdom hath set darkness in our paths. Out of the uncharted, unthinkable dark we came, and in a little time we shall return again, into the vast, unanswering dark. O dark, thou awful, sweet, and holy dark, in thy solemn spaces beyond the human eye, God fashioned his universe, laid the foundations of the earth, laid the measure thereof, and stretched the line upon it. Shut up the sea with doors, and made the glory of the clouds a covering for it. Commanded his morning, and behold, chaos fled before the uplifted face of the sun. Divided a water-course for the overflowing of waters, sent rain upon the earth, upon the wilderness wherein there was no man, upon the desert where grew no tender herb, and lo, there was greenness upon the plains, and the hills were clothed with beauty. Out of the uncharted, unthinkable dark we came, and in a little time we shall return again, into the vast, unanswering dark. O dark, thou secret, and inscrutable dark, in thy silent depths, the spring whereof man hath not fathomed, God wrought the soul of man. O dark, compassionate, all-knowing dark, tenderly, as shadows to the evening, comes thy message to man. Softly thou layest thy hand on his tired eyelids, and his soul, weary and homesick, returns unto thy soothing embrace. Out of the uncharted, unthinkable dark we came, and in a little time we shall return again, into the vast, unanswering dark. O dark, wise, vital thought quickening dark, in thy mystery thou hideest the light that is the soul's life. Upon the solitary shores I walk unafraid, I dread no evil, though I walk in the valley of the shadow. I shall not know the ecstasy of fear, when gentle death leads me through life's open door, when the bands of night are sundered, and the day out pours its light. Out of the uncharted, unthinkable dark we came, and in a little time we shall return again, into the vast, unanswering dark. The timid soul, fear driven, shunts the dark, but upon the cheeks of him who must abide in shadow, breathes the wind of rushing angel wings, and round him falls a light from unseen fires. Magical beams glow with wart the darkness, paths of beauty wind through his black world to another world of light, where no veil of sense shuts him out from paradise. Out of the uncharted, unthinkable dark we came, and in a little time we shall return again, into the vast, unanswering dark. O dark, thou blessed, quiet dark! To the lone exile who must dwell with thee, thou art benign and friendly. From the harsh world thou dost shut him in. To him thou whispers the secrets of the wondrous night. Upon him thou bestowest regions wide and boundless as his spirit. Thou giveest a glory to all humble things. With thy hovering pinions thou coverest all unlovely objects. Under thy brooding wings there is peace. Out of the uncharted, unthinkable dark we came, and in a little time we shall return again, into the vast, unanswering dark. 2. Once in regions void of light I wandered, in blank darkness I stumbled, and fear led me by the hand. My feet pressed earthward, afraid of pitfalls. By many shapeless terrors of the night affrighted, to the wakeful day I held out my besieging arms. Then came love, bearing in her hand the torch that is the light unto my feet, and softly spoke love. Has thou entered into the treasures of darkness? Has thou entered into the treasures of the night? Search out thy blindness, it holdeth riches past computing. The words of love set my spirit aflame, my eager fingers searched out the mysteries, the splendours, the inmost sacredness of things, and in the vacancies discerned with spiritual sense the fullness of life, and the gates of day stood wide. I am shaken with gladness, my limbs tremble with joy, my heart and the earth tremble with happiness, the ecstasy of life is broad in the world. Knowledge hath uncurrentened heaven, on the utter most shores of darkness there is light, midnight hath sent forth a beam, the blind that stumbled in darkness without light, behold a new day, and the obscurity gleams the star of thought, imagination hath a luminous eye, and the mind hath a glorious vision. 3 The man is blind, what is life to him? A closed book held up against a sightless face? Would that he could see yawned beauty as star, and know for one transcendent moment the palpitating joy of sight? All sight is up the soul, behold it in the upward flight of the unfettered spirit. Has thou seen thought bloom in the blind child's face? Has thou seen his mind grow, like the running dawn to grasp the vision of the master? It was the miracle of inward sight. In the realms of wonderment where I dwell, I explore life with my hands, I recognize and am happy. My fingers are ever a thirst for the earth, and drink of its wonders with delight, draw out earth's dear delights, my feet are charged with the murmur, the throb of all things that grow. This is touch, this quivering, this flame, this ether, this glad rush of blood, this daylight in my heart, this glow of sympathy in my palms. Thou blind, loving, all-prying touch, thou openness the book of life to me. The noiseless little noises of the earth come with softest rustle, the shy sweet feet of life, the silky mutter of moth wings against my restraining palm, the strident beat of insect wings, the silvery trickle of water, little breeze is busy in the summer grass, the music of crisp whisking scurrying leaves, the swirling wind-swept frost-tinted leaves, the crystal splash of summer rain saturate with the odors of the sod. With alert fingers I listen to the showers of sound that the wind shakes from the forest. I bathe in the liquid shade under the pines, where the air hangs cool after the shower is done. My saucy little friend the squirrel flips my shoulder with his tail, leaps from leafy billow to leafy billow, returns to eat his breakfast from my hand. Between us there is glad sympathy. He gambles. My pulse is dance. I am exultingly full of the joy of life. Have not my fingers flit the sand on the sun-flooded beach? Have not my naked body felt the water sing when the sea hath enveloped it with rippling music? Have I not felt the lilt of waves beneath my boat? The flap of sail, the strain of mast, the wild rush of the lightning-charged winds. Have I not smelt the swift keen flight of winged odors before the tempest? Here is joy awake, aglow. Here is the tumult off the heart. My hands evoke sight and sound out of feeling, intershifting the senses endlessly, linking motion with sight, odor with sound. They give color to the honeyed breeze, the measure and passion of a symphony, to the beat and quiver of unseen wings. In the secrets of earth and sun and air, my fingers are wise. They snatch light out of darkness. They thrill to harmonies breathed in silence. I walked in the stillness of the night, and my soul uttered her gladness. O night, still, odorous night, I love thee. O wide, spacious night, I love thee. O steadfast, glorious night, I touch thee with my hands. I lean against thy strength. I am comforted. O fathomless, soothing night, thou art a balm to my restless spirit. I nestle gratefully in thy bosom, dark and gracious mother. Like a dove, I rest in thy bosom. Out of the uncharted, unthinkable dark we came, and in a little time we shall return again, into the vast, unanswering dark. End of A Chant of Darkness End of The World I Live In, by Helen Keller