FRI APR 18

I dreamt of a primaeval landscape, which disturbingly quickly metamorphosed into lush, rolling, quintessentially English countryside, of the variety which everyone seems to carry around in their heads but which has never really existed, nor is it now ever likely to exist. Curious sproutings of green fungi incongruously began to blemish the pastoral idyll. Huge butterflies swooped from nowhere, their movements corresponding so precisely with accompanying high-pitched pipe music that I imagined they must have studied elaborate choreographies whilst in their chrysalises. This anthropomorphism seems utterly ridiculous now, as is so often the case with dreams.

This fanciful musing apparently found a strong resonance in the dream, for it became clear to me that the wings of the lepidopterous insects did not display the expected colourful patterns, pretty patches, speckles and spots, no: each butterfly’s organs of flight contained a single, symmetrical face. At first the flying faces were expressionless, but then they began to squeal, like dog whistles. The features on two of the winged creatures I recognised as my own and those of Nathaniel Snoxell.

The dream alarmed me. I was immensely relieved when I found I was gaining control of it. I gently dreamt of an ancient city that gave the impression of having been built by artists and sculptors. Slender, tapering chryselephantine towers pierced chromospheric clouds in a vortex of shattering kaleidoscopes. Stained glass domes, illuminated from within, painted the sky with glorious images. The honeyed air held me spellbound, whilst magical music, similar to Javanese orchestras but much more delicate and subtle, enchanted my ears. I have no idea from where such quaint picturesqueness springs—perhaps from an overindulgence in florid fiction during my student days. The accompanying fires of love feelings were, however, genuine.

WED APR 23

Nat’s mother is “heckling” him, as he puts it, into going to college or taking a job. I hate to think what kind of a job someone of eighteen with no experience could get. He shares my view that manual labour would be soul-destroying, but I do support Mrs. Snoxell’s efforts in steering him towards college. I told her that I am sure Nat will take up the reins of normal life when he is ready. I said to Nat that I could just see him as a tramp in a few years’ time. He was shocked but soon recovered his poise, unfortunately.

SUN APR 27

I had a dream with controlled relaxational material. All of a sudden the pleasantries ceased and crumbled in front of my “eyes”. It was like watching a favourite painting crack and decay into dust—a process which normally takes centuries—encapsulated within a few seconds. Then I was aware of hurling around an energy force at an incredible velocity, like a manic planet around its sun. I certainly felt globular. Then I began to see myself as a stationary single eyeball, with all-perfect but condensed human physiology held within. The exception was that I had no personality, making me the epitome of a voyeur as I beheld the scene unfolding.