The Jacket

The Jacket

The Jacket

The Jacket

Excerpt

All my life I have had an awareness of other times and places. I have been awaro of other pesons in me. -- Oh, and trust me, so. have you, my reader that is to be. Read back into your childhood, and this sense of awareness I speak of will be remembered as an experience of your childhood. You were then not fixed, not crystailized. You were plastic, a soul in flux, a consciousness and an identity in the process of forming -- ay, of forming and forgetting.

You have forgotten much, my reader, and yet, as you read these lines, you remember dimly the hazy vistas of other times and places into which your child eyes peered. They seem dreams to you to-day. Yet, if they were dreams, dreamed then, where the substance of them? Our dreams are grotesquely compounded of the things we know. The stuff of our sheerest dreams is the stuff of our experience. As a child a woe child, you dreamed you fell great heights; you dreamed you flew through the air as things of the air fly; you were vexed by crawling spiders and many-legged creatures of the slime; you heard other voices, saw other faces nightmarishly familiar, and gazed upon sunrises and sunsets other than you know now, looking back, you ever looked upon.

Very well. These child glimpses are of otherworldness of other-lifeness, of things that you had never seen in this particular world of your partictilar life. Then whence? Other lives? Other worlds?

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