>Von: "Earls, JP" <[log in to unmask]>
>An: "[log in to unmask]" <[log in to unmask]>
>Betreff: RE: memory in TWL
>Datum: Son, 20. Mai 2001 16:30 Uhr

>Here are a few lines of Hesse that were just a few lines away from the lines
>that Eliot noted in TWL:
>Rather the "invalid" of this sort transposes the events of his own soul into
>general terms applicable to mankind. Everyone has visions, everyone has
>imaginings, everyone has dreams. And every vision, every dream, every
>thought and inspiration a person has, may, on the way from the unconscious
>to consciousness, permit of a thousand different interpretations, each one
>of which may be right. 

To all, 

Thank you for the Hesse quote -- where is it from?

Apparently TSE never attributed much importance to dreams, putting them on
the same level as such esoteric persuits as observing the Loch Ness monster,
or obtainig omens from tea-leves or tarot cards, as shown in TDS V:

....fiddle with pentagrams
Or barbituric acids, or dissect
The recurrent image into pre-conscious terrors-
To explore the womb, or tomb, or dreams; all these are usual
Pastimes and drugs, and features of the press:

Considering his spititualty this has akways seemed odd to me.
There had been various speculations on the list, most of them
unsatisfactory, on why he despised Freud. Could it be that he believed his
own craft was in a way more in touch with reality?

Any ideas?


"'re innocent when you dream"
Tom Waits


A Poet to his Beloved

I bring you with reverent hands
The books of my numberless dreams,
White women that passion has worn
As the tide wears the dove-grey sands
And with heart more old than the horn
That is brimmed by the pale fire of time:
White woman with numberless dreams
I bring you my passionate rhyme.



"And there she lulled me to to sleep
And there I dreamed, oh woe betide,
The latest dream I ever dreamed 
On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings, pale princes, too,
Pale warriors, death pale were they all,
They cried: La Belle Dame Sans Merci
Holds you in thrall."




This night had been so strange that it seemed
As if the hair stood up on my head.
>From going-down of the sun I have dreamed
That women laughing, or timid, or wild,
In rustle of lace or silken stuff,
Climbed up my creaking stair. They had read
All I have rhymed of that monstrous thing
Returned and yet unrequited love.
They stood in the door and stood between
My great wood lectern and the fire
Till I could hear their hearts beating:
One was a harlot, and one a child
That never looked upon man with desire,
And one, it may be, a queen.