Text 2 Now and again I have had horrible dreams, but not enough of them to make me Jose my delight in dreams. To begin with, I like the idea of dreaming, of going to bed and lying still and then, by some queer magic, wandering into another kind of existence. I could never understand why grown- ups took dreaming so calmly when they could make such a fuss about any holiday. This still puzzles me. I am mystified by people who say they never dream and appear to have no interest in the subject. It is much more astonishing than if they said they never went out for a walk. 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 annoying little habit, like sneezing or yawning. I have never understood this. My dream life does not seem as important as my waking life only because there is far less of it, but to me it is important. As if there were at least two extra continents added to the world, and lightning excursions running to them at any moment between midnight and breakfast. Then again, the dream life, though queer and confusing and unsatisfactory in many respects, has its own advantages. The dead are there, smiling and talking. The past is there, some-times all broken and confused but occasionally as fresh as a daisy. And perhaps, the future is there too, waving 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 merge into one person while Robinson splits into two, and there are thick woods outside the bathroom door and the dining- room is somehow part of a theater balcony; and there are moments of sorrow or terror in the dream world that are worse than anything else we have known under the sun. Yet this other life has its interests, its enjoyments, its satisfactions, and, at certain rare intervals, a peaceful glow or a sudden excitement, like glimpses of another form of existence altogether, that we cannot match with open eyes.