Two of the walls are cork-lined, the third is a bare stone wall roughly coated with Roman cement. In the angle of the two cork-lined walls is a narrow wrought-iron bedstead covered with an eiderdown quilt and beside it, a night-table on which lie books, papers, and a little brass bell. Against the stone wall there is a brass bedstead piled high with blankets, and beside it a night-table on which lie books, papers, and a little gold bottle. There is someone lying on each of the beds.
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Two of the walls are cork-lined, the third is a bare stone wall roughly coated with Roman cement. In the angle of the two cork-lined walls is a narrow wrought-iron bedstead covered with an eiderdown quilt and beside it, a night-table on which lie books, papers, and a little brass bell.
Against the stone wall there is a brass bedstead piled high with blankets, and beside it a night-table on which lie books, papers, and a little gold bottle. There is someone lying on each of the beds.
Thomas de Quincey, sitting up in his bed angrily : My dear sir, desist immediately from your tintinnabulous propensities. These velvet drapes will be closed at the end of the scene and not before, so you are wasting your breath, which I see you have little enough of, in calling for it to be done ahead of time.
And indeed your feeble efforts are doubly futile since the character you call for is not even in the play, and the people you speak of are only the audience, such a harmless group that is in no way to be feared, unlike the horrible hoards who people my own dreams; and can I caution you, dear sir, for I perceive you to be something of a valetudinarian, against becoming a confirmed heautontimourousmenos Marcel Proust, rubbing his eyes : Bougre!
T de Q, swinging his legs over the side of the bed : Ah, you wonder who addresses you in such elaborately constructed language? Allow me to introduce myself. This centenary celebration, and your devoted presence proves me right. He nibbles on the corner of his moustache and mumbles to himself : Where are the Bergottes and the Blochs? All gone and forgotten while I alone have survived to become the keystone of modern literature T de Q, lying down again upon his bed : But alas, opium had a palsying effect on my intellectual faculties T de Q, closing his eyes : I must now pass to what is the main subject of these confessions, to the history of what took place in my dreams.
At night, when I lay in my bed, vast processions passed along in mournful pomp; friezes of never-ending stories, that to my feelings were as sad and as solemn as if they were stories drawn from times before Oedipus or Priam, before Tyre, before Memphis.
MP, massaging his temples : I feel something quiver in me, shift, try to rise, the glimmer of a visual memory, the elusive eddying of stirred-up colours T de Q, in a dreamy voice : A theatre seemed suddenly opened and lighted up within my brain, which presented nightly spectacles of more than earthly splendour.
As the creative state of the eye increased, a sympathy seemed to arise between the waking and the dreaming states of the brain in one point, that whatsoever I happened to call up and to trace by a voluntary act upon the darkness was very apt to transfer itself to my dreams The same story branches off and has a different ending. T de Q: All this and other changes in my dreams were accompanied by deep-seated anxiety and gloomy melancholy, such as wholly incommunicable by words MP, lying down : But my sadness was only increased by those multi-coloured apparitions of the lantern..
T de Q: The sense of space, and in the end the sense of time, were both powerfully affected. MP, closing his eyes : In Combray, I moved through the church T de Q: The minutist incidents of childhood, or forgotten scenes of later years, were often revived MP: I have many pictures preserved by my memory of what Combray was during my childhood..
T de Q: The following dream Easter Sunday.. MP: It was at Easter T de Q: I find it impossible to banish the thought of death when I am walking alone in the endless days of summer MP: That summer day seemed as dead, as immemorially ancient as
CONFESIONES DE UN INGLES COMEDOR DE OPIO
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