January 31st, 1950

I took dozens of dreams to Mrs Marks today — all dreamed over the last three days. They all had the same quality of false art, caricature, illustration, parody. All the dreams were in marvellous fresh vivid colour, that gave me great pleasure. She said: ‘You are dreaming a great deal.’ I said: ‘As soon as I close my eyes.’ She: ‘And what are all these dreams about?’ I smile, before she can; at which she looks at me sternly, ready to take a strong line. But I say: ‘I want to ask you something. Half those dreams were nightmares, I was in real terror, sweating when I woke up. And yet I enjoyed every minute of them. I enjoy dreaming. I look forward to sleep because I am going to dream. I wake myself up in the night, again and again, to enjoy the knowledge of my dreaming. In the morning I feel as happy as if I’ve built cities in my sleep. Well? But yesterday I met a woman who has been in psychoanalysis for ten years — an American naturally.’ Here Mrs Marks smiled. ‘This woman told me with a sort of bright sterilized smile that her dreams were more important to her than her life, more real to her than anything that happened in the day-time with her child and her husband.’ Mrs Marks smiled. ‘Yes, I know what you are going to say. And it’s true — she told me she once believed herself to be a writer. But then I’ve never met anyone anywhere of any class, colour or creed, who hasn’t at some time believed themselves to be writers, painters, dancers or something. And that is probably a more interesting fact than anything else we’ve discussed in this room — after all a hundred years ago it would never have crossed most people’s minds to be artists. They recognized the station in life it had pleased God to call them to. But — isn’t there something wrong with the fact that my sleep is more satisfying, exciting, enjoyable than anything that happens to me awake? I don’t want to become like that American woman.’ A silence, her conducting smile. ‘Yes, I know you want me to say that all my creativity is going into my dreams.’ ‘Well, isn’t it true?’ ‘Mrs Marks, I’m going to ask if we can ignore my dreams for a time.’ She says drily: ‘You come to me, a psychotherapist, and ask if we can ignore your dreams?’ ‘Isn’t it possible at least that my dreaming so enjoyably is an escape away from feeling?’ She sits quiet, thinking. Oh, she is a most intelligent wise old woman. She makes a small gesture, asking me to be quiet while she thinks whether this is sensible or not. And in the meantime I look at the room we are sitting in. It is tall, long, darkened, quietened. It has flowers everywhere. The walls are covered with reproductions of masterpieces and there are statues. It is almost like an art gallery. It is a dedicated room. It gives me pleasure, like an art gallery. The point is, that nothing in my life corresponds with anything in this room — my life has always been crude, unfinished, raw, tentative; and so have the lives of the people I have known well. It occurred to me, looking at this room, that the raw unfinished quality in my life was precisely what was valuable in it and I should hold fast to it. She came out of her brief meditation and said: ‘Very well, my dear. We’ll leave your dreams for a while, and you will bring me your waking fantasies.’