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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
A. nothing terrible or delightful.
B. only moments of sorrow or terror.
C. mysterious anxieties as well as enjoyments.
D. only moments of peaceful glow or sudden excitement.
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