Old Stories Often Turn Out To Be

Here Then Is The Pattern In My Carpet, The Sense Of The Eternal Mysteries, The Eternal Beauty Hidden Beneath The Crust Of Common And Commonplace Things; Hidden And Yet Burning And Glowing Continually If You Care To Look With Purged Eyes.

It Is All Nonsense, To Be Sure; And So Much The Greater Nonsense Inasmuch As The True Interpretation Of Many Dreams - Not By Any Means Of All Dreams - Moves, It May Be Said, In The Opposite Direction To The Method Of Psycho-analysis.

Now, Everybody, I Suppose, Is Aware That In Recent Years The Silly Business Of Divination By Dreams Has Ceased To Be A Joke And Has Become A Very Serious Science.

There Are Strange Things Lost And Forgotten In Obscure Corners Of The Newspaper.

And There Were Other Rocks That Were Like Animals, Creeping, Horrible Animals, Putting Out Their Tongues, And Others Were Like Words I Could Not Say, And Others Like Dead People Lying On The Grass. I Went On Among Them, Though They Frightened Me, And My Heart Was Full Of Wicked Song They Put Into It; And I Wanted To Make Faces And Twist Myself About The Way They Did, And I Went On And On A Long Way Till At Last I Liked The Rocks And They Didn’t Frighten Me Any More