Readings from a Dream-book 



OFTEN, in the blind dead of the night, I find 

 myself reading a book, a big broad 

 book, a dream-book. By " dream- 

 book," I do not mean a book about dreams, 

 but a book made of the stuff that dreams are 

 made of. 



I do not know the name of the book, nor the 

 name of its author : I have not been able to see 

 the title-page ; and there is no running title. As 

 for the back of the volume, it remains, like the 

 back of the Moon, invisible forever. 



At no time have I touched the book in any 

 way, not even to turn a leaf. Somebody, 

 always viewless, holds it up and open before 

 me in the dark ; and I can read it only because it 

 is lighted by a light that comes from nowhere. 

 Above and beneath and on either side of the 

 book there is darkness absolute; but the pages 

 249 



