Mon, 28 January 2008 By H.G. Wells "That book," he repeated, pointing a lean finger, "is about dreams." "Obviously," I answered, for it was Fortnum Roscoe's Dream States, and the title was on the cover. He hung silent for a space as if he sought words. "Yes," he said at last, "but they tell you nothing." I did not catch his meaning for a second. "They don't know," he added. I looked a little more attentively at his face. "There are dreams," he said, "and dreams." That sort of proposition I never dispute. "I suppose--" he hesitated. "Do you ever dream? I mean vividly." Comments[5] |

