My mother kissed me and I felt it; just as long as
I could hold my breath I could walk hand in hand with Madame Seraskier,
or feel Mimsey's small weight on my back and her arms round my neck for
four or five yards as I walked, before blurring the dream; and the blur
would soon pass away, if it did not wake me, and I was Peter Ibbetson
once more, walking and sitting among them, hearing them talk and laugh,
watching them at their meals, in their walks; listening to my father's
songs, my mother's sweet playing, and always unseen and unheeded by
them. Moreover, I soon learned to touch things without sensibly blurring
the dream. I would cull a rose, and stick it in my buttonhole, and
there it remained--but lo! the very rose I had just culled was still on
the rose-bush also! I would pick up a stone and throw it at the wall,
where it disappeared without a sound--and the very same stone still lay
at my feet, however often I might pick it up and throw it!
[Illustration]
No waking joy in the world can give, can equal in intensity, these
complex joys I had when asleep; waking joys seem so slight, so vague in
comparison--so much escapes the senses through lack of concentration and
undivided attention--the waking perceptions are so blunt.
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