1.
What a bundle of contradictions is a man! Surely, humour
is the saving
grace
of us, for without it we should die of vexation.
With me, nothing illustrates the contrariness of things
better than the matter of sleep. If, for example, my
intention is to write an essay, and I have before me
ink and pens and several sheets of virgin paper, you
may depend upon it that before I have gone very far
I feel an overpowering desire for sleep, no matter what
time of the day it is. I stare at  the
reproachfully blank paper until sights and sounds
become dim and confused, and it is only by an effort
of will that I can continue at all. Even then, I proceed
half-heartedly, in a kind of dream. But let me
be between the sheets at a late hour, and I can do anything
but sleep. Between chime
and chime of the clock I can write essays by the score.
Fascinating subjects and noble ideas come
pell-mell, each with its appropriate imagery and
expression. Nothing
stands between me and half-a-dozen imperishable masterpieces
but pens, ink, and paper.
2.
If it be true that our thoughts and mental images are
perfectly tangible
things, like our books and pictures, to the inhabitants
of the next world, then I am making for myself a better
reputation there than I am in this place. Give me a
restless hour or two in bed and I can solve, to my own
satisfaction, all the doubts of humanity. When I am
in the humour I can compose grand symphonies,
and paint magnificent pictures. I am, at once, Shakespeare,
Beethoven, and Michael Angelo; yet it gives me no satisfaction;
for the one thing I cannot do is to go to sleep.
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