Without Lifting A Finger

I woke up shortly afterwards and said to Georges, ‘Let’s go out.’ As we were crossing the Pont des Arts I explained the migration of souls and told him: ‘I think the soul of Napoleon is within me tonight, inspiring me and commanding me to do great things.’ I purchased a hat in the rue du Coq and while Georges was collecting the change from the gold coin I had tossed on the counter, I continued on to the galleries of the Palais-Royal. It seemed to me that everybody there was staring at me. I couldn’t get the idea out of my head that the dead no longer existed. I wandered up and down the Galerie de Foy, saying, ‘I’ve made some mistake,’ but I could not discover what it was as I searched through my memory which I believed to be Napoleon’s … ‘There’s something here I’ve left unpaid!’

From the beginning of Nerval's Aurelia, or Dream and Life: Dream is a second life. I have never been able to cross through those gates of ivory or horn which separate us from the invisible world without a sense of dread. The first few instants of sleep are the image of death; a drowsy numbness steals over our thoughts, and it becomes impossible to determine the precise point at which the self , in some other form, continues to carry on the work of existence. Little by little, the dim cavern is suffused with light and, emerging from its shadowy depths, the pale figures who dwell in limbo come into view, solemn and still. Then the tableau takes on shape, a new clarity illuminates these bizarre apparitions and sets them in motion -- the spirit world opens for us.       Swedenborg called these visions his Memorabilia; they came to him more often in reverie than in sleep; Apuleius' Golden Ass and Dante's Divine Comedy are the poetic models of such studies of t...