some poor souls, that imaginary incubus squatting upon their sleeping forms can do real medical harm. And I do not want to become one of these cases.
You can help me, my precious. I know you didnât intend things to turn out this way, but that bit of intrigue you perpetrated with the help of Miss Locher has really gotten to me. Consciously, of course, I still uphold the criticism Iâve already expressed about the basic absurdity of your work. Unconsciously, however, you seem to have awakened me to a stratum of abject terror. I will at least admit that your ideas form a powerful psychic metaphor, though no more than that. Which is quite enough, isnât it? Itâs certainly quite enough to inspire the writing of this letter, in which I plead for your attention, since Iâve failed to attract it in any other way. I canât go on like this! With your harrowing trickery you have possessed me down to my deepest self. Please release me from this spell, and letâs begin a normal romance. However unknown may be their psychic mechanisms, itâs only emotions that matterânot zones of the unreal, not a metaphysics stripped of all that is human.
In Miss Locher I believe you sent me an embodiment of your deepest convictions. But suppose I start admitting uncanny things about her? Suppose I grant that she was somehow just a dream. Suppose I allow that she was not a girl but actually a thing without a self, an unreality that, in accord with your vision of existence, dreamed it was a human being and not just a fabricated impersonation of our flesh? You would have me entertain such thoughts. You would have me think there is some mysterious affinity among the things of this world, and of other worlds. So what if there is? I donât care anymore.
Forget other selves. Forget the third (fourth, nth) person view of life in which some god or demon has individuated itself into bits and pieces of all that is. Only first and second persons matter (I and thou). And by all means forget dreams. I, for one, know Iâm not a dream. I am real, Dr.ââ. (There, how do you like being an anonymity without foundation in this or any other universe?) So please be so kind as to acknowledge the reality of my existence.
It is now after midnight, and I dread going to sleep and having another of those nightmares. You can save me from this fate, if only you can find it in your heart to do so. But you must hurry. Time is running out for us, just as these last few waking moments are now running out for me. Tell me it is still not too late for our love. Please donât destroy everything for us. You will only hurt yourself. And despite your high-flown theory of masochism, there is really nothing divine about it. So no more playing of the inhuman visionary. Be simple, be nice. Oh, I am so tired. I must say good night, then, but not
goodbye, my foolish love. Hear me now. Sleep your singular sleep and dream of the many, the others. They are also part of you, part of us. Die into them and leave me in peace. I will come for you later, and then you can always be with me in a special corner of your own, just as my little Amy once was. This is what youâve always wanted and this you shall have. Die into them, you simple soul, you silly dolling. Die with a nice bright gleam in your eyes
.
THE NYCTALOPS TRILOGY
THE NYCTALOPS TRILOGY
I. THE CHYMIST
Hello, Miss. Why, yes, as a matter of fact I
am
looking for some company this evening. My name is Simon, and you are . . . Rosemary. Funny, I was just daydreaming in the key of Rosicrucianism. Never mind. Please sit, and watch out for splinters on your chair, so you donât catch your dress. It appears that everything around here has come to the point of frays and splinters. But what this old place lacks in refinement of décor is amply offset by its atmosphere, donât you think? Yes, as you say, I suppose it does serve its purpose. Itâs a little lax as far
You can help me, my precious. I know you didnât intend things to turn out this way, but that bit of intrigue you perpetrated with the help of Miss Locher has really gotten to me. Consciously, of course, I still uphold the criticism Iâve already expressed about the basic absurdity of your work. Unconsciously, however, you seem to have awakened me to a stratum of abject terror. I will at least admit that your ideas form a powerful psychic metaphor, though no more than that. Which is quite enough, isnât it? Itâs certainly quite enough to inspire the writing of this letter, in which I plead for your attention, since Iâve failed to attract it in any other way. I canât go on like this! With your harrowing trickery you have possessed me down to my deepest self. Please release me from this spell, and letâs begin a normal romance. However unknown may be their psychic mechanisms, itâs only emotions that matterânot zones of the unreal, not a metaphysics stripped of all that is human.
In Miss Locher I believe you sent me an embodiment of your deepest convictions. But suppose I start admitting uncanny things about her? Suppose I grant that she was somehow just a dream. Suppose I allow that she was not a girl but actually a thing without a self, an unreality that, in accord with your vision of existence, dreamed it was a human being and not just a fabricated impersonation of our flesh? You would have me entertain such thoughts. You would have me think there is some mysterious affinity among the things of this world, and of other worlds. So what if there is? I donât care anymore.
Forget other selves. Forget the third (fourth, nth) person view of life in which some god or demon has individuated itself into bits and pieces of all that is. Only first and second persons matter (I and thou). And by all means forget dreams. I, for one, know Iâm not a dream. I am real, Dr.ââ. (There, how do you like being an anonymity without foundation in this or any other universe?) So please be so kind as to acknowledge the reality of my existence.
It is now after midnight, and I dread going to sleep and having another of those nightmares. You can save me from this fate, if only you can find it in your heart to do so. But you must hurry. Time is running out for us, just as these last few waking moments are now running out for me. Tell me it is still not too late for our love. Please donât destroy everything for us. You will only hurt yourself. And despite your high-flown theory of masochism, there is really nothing divine about it. So no more playing of the inhuman visionary. Be simple, be nice. Oh, I am so tired. I must say good night, then, but not
goodbye, my foolish love. Hear me now. Sleep your singular sleep and dream of the many, the others. They are also part of you, part of us. Die into them and leave me in peace. I will come for you later, and then you can always be with me in a special corner of your own, just as my little Amy once was. This is what youâve always wanted and this you shall have. Die into them, you simple soul, you silly dolling. Die with a nice bright gleam in your eyes
.
THE NYCTALOPS TRILOGY
THE NYCTALOPS TRILOGY
I. THE CHYMIST
Hello, Miss. Why, yes, as a matter of fact I
am
looking for some company this evening. My name is Simon, and you are . . . Rosemary. Funny, I was just daydreaming in the key of Rosicrucianism. Never mind. Please sit, and watch out for splinters on your chair, so you donât catch your dress. It appears that everything around here has come to the point of frays and splinters. But what this old place lacks in refinement of décor is amply offset by its atmosphere, donât you think? Yes, as you say, I suppose it does serve its purpose. Itâs a little lax as far
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