[originaltext] Now and again I have had horrible dreams, but not enough of t

Now and again I have had horrible dreams, but not enough of them to make me lose my delight in dreams. To begin with, I like the idea of dreaming, of going to bed and lying still and then, by some magic, wandering into another world. Most people or at least most Western Europeans do not seem to accept dreaming as part of their lives. They appear to see it as an irritating little habit, like sneezing or yawning. I have never understood this. My dream life does not seem as important as my waking life, if only because there is far less of it, but to me it is important.
    Then again, the dream life has its own advantages. The dead are there, smiling and talking. The past is there, and perhaps, the future is there too, winking at us. This dream life is often overshadowed by huge mysterious anxieties, with luggage that cannot be packed and trains that refuse to be caught; and both persons and scenes there are not as dependable and solid as they are in waking life, so that Brown and Smith become one person while Robinson breaks into two; and there are moments of terror in the dream world that are worse than anything we have known under the sun. Yet this other life has its interests, its fun and its satisfaction.