The Clown at Midnight

Well, most kind... 

Parting is such sweet sorrow. 

Captain, have we not heard 

The Chimes at Midnight...?

General Chang

Makes a Fool 

of Captain Kirk 

The Clown at Midnight is Hamlet 

because The Mousetrap is exactly 

in The Middle of The Play.

It's a Play within The Play -

- a False Reality -

- a bad JOKE.

Hamlet is The Clown at Midnight 

because he should KNOW (He DOES know) 

that The Ghost/Hurt up on The Ramparts 

of Arkham/Elsinore is NOT His Father, 

because His Father is DEAD and at Peace --

So His Father would never tell him 

to commit Murder to avenge His Death, 

because His Father would NOT be in HELL 

(as The Ghost claims that it is, because King Hamlet was murdered), 

because he KNOWS that Evil Spirits take on the form, face and voice of Friends and Loved Ones to get The Living to Damn their own souls to Hell, and because he knows that he shouldn't accept what The Spirit tells him to do, just because he WANTS to believe that it is True. 

But he DOES, anyway, even though 

he KNOWS -

- by virtue of Reason -

-that it's a Lie.

Paul Scofield in Hamlet (1990) - Ghost Scene

Thomas Wayne Jr.

Building a Better Batman

THE EVOLUTIONARY APPETITE

What then is the modern view of Joan's voices and visions and messages from God? The nineteenth century said that they were delusions, but that as she was a pretty girl, and had been abominably ill-treated and finally done to death by a superstitious rabble of medieval priests hounded on by a corrupt political bishop, it must be assumed that she was the innocent dupe of these delusions. The twentieth century finds this explanation too vapidly commonplace, and demands something more mystic. I think the twentieth century is right, because an explanation which amounts to Joan being mentally defective instead of, as she obviously was, mentally excessive, will not wash. I cannot believe, nor, if I could, could I expect all my readers to believe, as Joan did, that three ocularly visible well dressed persons, named respectively Saint Catherine, Saint Margaret, and Saint Michael, came down from heaven and gave her certain instructions with which they were charged by God for her. Not that such a belief would be more improbable or fantastic than some modern beliefs which we all swallow; but there are fashions and family habits in belief, and it happens that, my fashion being Victorian and my family habit Protestant, I find myself unable to attach any such objective validity to the form of Joan's visions.

But that there are forces at work which use individuals for purposes far transcending the purpose of keeping these individuals alive and prosperous and respectable and safe and happy in the middle station in life, which is all any good bourgeois can reasonably require, is established by the fact that men will, in the pursuit of knowledge and of social readjustments for which they will not be a penny the better, and are indeed often many pence the worse, face poverty, infamy, exile, imprisonment, dreadful hardship, and death. Even the selfish pursuit of personal power does not nerve men to the efforts and sacrifices which are eagerly made in pursuit of extensions of our power over nature, though these extensions may not touch the personal life of the seeker at any point. There is no more mystery about this appetite for knowledge and power than about the appetite for food: both are known as facts and as facts only, the difference between them being that the appetite for food is necessary to the life of the hungry man and is therefore a personal appetite, whereas the other is an appetite for evolution, and therefore a superpersonal need.

The diverse manners in which our imaginations dramatize the approach of the superpersonal forces is a problem for the psychologist, not for the historian. Only, the historian must understand that visionaries are neither impostors nor lunatics. It is one thing to say that the figure Joan recognized as St Catherine was not really St Catherine, but the dramatization by Joan's imagination of that pressure upon her of the driving force that is behind evolution which I have just called the evolutionary appetite. It is quite another to class her visions with the vision of two moons seen by a drunken person, or with Brocken spectres, echoes and the like. Saint Catherine's instructions were far too cogent for that; and the simplest French peasant who believes in apparitions of celestial personages to favored mortals is nearer to the scientific truth about Joan than the Rationalist and Materialist historians and essayists who feel obliged to set down a girl who saw saints and heard them talking to her as either crazy or mendacious. If Joan was mad, all Christendom was mad too; for people who believe devoutly in the existence of celestial personages are every whit as mad in that sense as the people who think they see them. Luther, when he threw his inkhorn at the devil, was no more mad than any other Augustinian monk: he had a more vivid imagination, and had perhaps eaten and slept less: that was all.

 

THE MERE ICONOGRAPHY DOES NOT MATTER

All the popular religions in the world are made apprehensible by an array of legendary personages, with an Almighty Father, and sometimes a mother and divine child, as the central figures. These are presented to the mind's eye in childhood; and the result is a hallucination which persists strongly throughout life when it has been well impressed. Thus all the thinking of the hallucinated adult about the fountain of inspiration which is continually flowing in the universe, or about the promptings of virtue and the revulsions of shame: in short, about aspiration and conscience, both of which forces are matters of fact more obvious than electro-magnetism, is thinking in terms of the celestial vision. And when in the case of exceptionally imaginative persons, especially those practising certain appropriate austerities, the hallucination extends from the mind's eye to the body's, the visionary sees Krishna or the Buddha or the Blessed Virgin or St Catherine as the case may be.

 — George Bernard Shaw

The Law of Attraction

Charles Haanel wrote in The Master Key System (1912):

“The law of attraction will certainly and unerringly bring to you the conditions, environment, and experiences in life, corresponding with your habitual, characteristic, predominant mental attitude.”

Ralph Trine wrote in In Tune With The Infinite (1897):

“The Law of Attraction works universally on every plane of action, and we attract whatever we desire or expect. If we desire one thing and expect another, we become like houses divided against themselves, which are quickly brought to desolation. Determine resolutely to expect only what you desire, then you will attract only what you wish for.”

In her 2006 film The Secret, Rhonda Byrne emphasized thinking about what each person wants to obtain, but also to infuse the thought with the maximum possible amount of emotion. She claims the combination of thought and feeling is what attracts the desire.

Red Skies

FAUSTUS. Talk not of me, but save yourselves, and depart.

     THIRD SCHOLAR. God will strengthen me; I will stay with Faustus.

     FIRST SCHOLAR. Tempt not God, sweet friend; but let us into the

     next room, and there pray for him.

     FAUSTUS. Ay, pray for me, pray for me; and what noise soever

     ye hear,171 come not unto me, for nothing can rescue me.

     SECOND SCHOLAR. Pray thou, and we will pray that God may have

     mercy upon thee.

     FAUSTUS. Gentlemen, farewell:  if I live till morning, I'll visit

     you; if not, Faustus is gone to hell.

     ALL. Faustus, farewell.

          [Exeunt SCHOLARS.—The clock strikes eleven.]

     FAUSTUS. Ah, Faustus,

     Now hast thou but one bare hour to live,

     And then thou must be damn'd perpetually!

     Stand still, you ever-moving spheres of heaven,

     That time may cease, and midnight never come;

     Fair Nature's eye, rise, rise again, and make

     Perpetual day; or let this hour be but

     A year, a month, a week, a natural day,

     That Faustus may repent and save his soul!

     O lente,172 lente currite, noctis equi!

     The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike,

     The devil will come, and Faustus must be damn'd.

     O, I'll leap up to my God!—Who pulls me down?—

     See, see, where Christ's blood streams in the firmament!

     One drop would save my soul, half a drop:  ah, my Christ!—

     Ah, rend not my heart for naming of my Christ!

     Yet will I call on him:  O, spare me, Lucifer!—

     Where is it now? 'tis gone:  and see, where God

     Stretcheth out his arm, and bends his ireful brows!

     Mountains and hills, come, come, and fall on me,

     And hide me from the heavy wrath of God!

     No, no!

     Then will I headlong run into the earth:

     Earth, gape!  O, no, it will not harbour me!

     You stars that reign'd at my nativity,

     Whose influence hath allotted death and hell,

     Now draw up Faustus, like a foggy mist.

     Into the entrails of yon labouring cloud[s],

     That, when you173 vomit forth into the air,

     My limbs may issue from your smoky mouths,

     So that my soul may but ascend to heaven!

          [The clock strikes the half-hour.]

     Ah, half the hour is past! 'twill all be past anon

     O God,

     If thou wilt not have mercy on my soul,

     Yet for Christ's sake, whose blood hath ransom'd me,

     Impose some end to my incessant pain;

     Let Faustus live in hell a thousand years,

     A hundred thousand, and at last be sav'd!

     O, no end is limited to damned souls!

     Why wert thou not a creature wanting soul?

     Or why is this immortal that thou hast?

     Ah, Pythagoras' metempsychosis, were that true,

     This soul should fly from me, and I be chang'd

     Unto some brutish beast!174 all beasts are happy,

     For, when they die,

     Their souls are soon dissolv'd in elements;

     But mine must live still to be plagu'd in hell.

     Curs'd be the parents that engender'd me!

     No, Faustus, curse thyself, curse Lucifer

     That hath depriv'd thee of the joys of heaven.

          [The clock strikes twelve.]

     O, it strikes, it strikes!  Now, body, turn to air,

     Or Lucifer will bear thee quick to hell!

          [Thunder and lightning.]

     O soul, be chang'd into little water-drops,

     And fall into the ocean, ne'er be found!

          Enter DEVILS.

     My God, my god, look not so fierce on me!

     Adders and serpents, let me breathe a while!

     Ugly hell, gape not! come not, Lucifer!

     I'll burn my books!—Ah, Mephistophilis!

          [Exeunt DEVILS with FAUSTUS.]  

          Enter CHORUS.

     CHORUS. Cut is the branch that might have grown full straight,

     And burned is Apollo's laurel-bough,

     That sometime grew within this learned man.

     Faustus is gone:  regard his hellish fall,

     Whose fiendful fortune may exhort the wise,

     Only to wonder at unlawful things,

     Whose deepness doth entice such forward wits

     To practice more than heavenly power permits.

          [Exit.]

     Terminat hora diem; terminat auctor opus.

Individuation and Isomorphism

It's not like it'd be cheating. 

They're both Xander. 

Dr Manhattan erotic sex scene. Laurie breaks up with Jon - Watchmen 2009

ScruffyXANDER: 

Let go! I have to kill the demon-bot! 

The g*n falls to the floor. 

SuaveXander grabs it. 

SuaveXANDER: 

Anya ... get out of the way. 

Anya is standing in front of ScruffyXander. 

Buffy and Riley rush in. 

BUFFY:

Xander! Riley closes the door. 

SuaveXANDER: 

(smiling) 

All right, Buffy. 

I have him. 

ScruffyXANDER: 

No! Buffy! I'm me! Help me! 

ANYA: 

My gun! He's got my gun! 

(Pointing to the gun in SuaveXander's hand) 

RILEY: 

You own a gun? 

BUFFY: 

Xander ... gun-holding Xander. 

(Walks quickly over to SuaveXander) 

Give me the gun. 

Both Xanders stare. 

Finally SuaveXander holds the gun up and gives it a quick twist with one hand so that the bullets fall out onto the floor. 

He flips it shut and hands it to Buffy, who looks impressed. 

ANYA: 

Buffy, which one's real? Buffy hands the g*n to Riley. 

ScruffyXANDER: 

I am. 

SuaveXANDER: 

No, I am. 

They try to attack each other but Buffy steps between them. 

She flings ScruffyXander across the room; he lands against the kitchen counter. 

SuaveXANDER: 

Thank you. 

Buffy grabs him and shoves him over 

next to ScruffyXander. 

SuaveXANDER: 

Ow! 

Anya, Riley, and Buffy come up to examine the two Xanders side-by-side. 

RILEY: 

Wild. 

BUFFY: 

Yeah. Okay, Xander ... Xa ... 

(sighs) 

You've been split in Two. 

But you're both Xander. 

And you can't kill each other. 

Um, well, you could, 

but it would be really bad. 

The Xanders look at each other. 

SuaveXANDER: 

No way.

 

ScruffyXANDER: 

He can't be me. 

He's all ... fancy. 

RILEY: 

We can prove that you're both Xander. 

BUFFY: 

Yeah! 

(to Riley) How? 

RILEY: 

Um... 

BUFFY: 

Um... 

RILEY: 

Well, there has to be a way. 

BUFFY: 

Ooh! What number am I thinking of? 

RILEY: 

I don't think that's gonna do it. 

XANDERS: 

(in unison) 

Eleven and a half. 

BUFFY: 

Wrong. Oh! But see? 

The Xanders frown. 

ScruffyXANDER: 

No. We're not the same. 

We're all different. 

RILEY: 

Different properties 

went into each of you, 

but you're both Xander. 

ANYA: 

Different properties? 

ScruffyXANDER: 

What different properties? 

BUFFY: 

Uh, uh, you know, uh, sense of direction. 

Good night vision, stuff like that. 

ScruffyXANDER: 

Oh, but he has a thingie! 

In his pocket! 

(pointing to SuaveXander's pocket) 

A shiny disk that stuns and disorients! 

SuaveXANDER: 

(reaching in pocket, taking out the thing) 

What disk? 

ScruffyXANDER: 

Cover your eyes! (covering eyes with hands) 

SuaveXANDER: 

This? 

ScruffyXANDER: 

It'll melt your brain! 

Buffy takes the thing from SuaveXander. 

Anya and Riley lean in to see. 

BUFFY: 

(to ScruffyXander) 

Look. 

SuaveXANDER: 

(tolerantly) 

It's a nickel someone flattened 

on the railroad track. 

I found it on the construction site 

and I thought it was cool. 

It's not magic. 

ScruffyXander uncovers his eyes to take the thing from Buffy. 

ScruffyXANDER: 

No, I ... huh. It is kinda cool. 

(SuaveXander nods tolerantly)

Washington's still there, 

but he's all smushy. 

(looks more closely) 

And he may be Jefferson. 

ANYA: 

Okay, isn't anyone gonna tell me 

why there are two Xanders?

BUFFY: 

I will on the way to Giles'. Let's go. 

They all turn to leave 

just as the door is smashed in. 

ScruffyXander and Anya hide behind SuaveXander, 

grabbing his shoulders. 

Toth strides in. 

BUFFY: 

Oh great. Rod boy. 

TOTH: 

I will not miss again, Slayer. 

ScruffyXANDER: 

(standing behind SuaveXander, 

clutching him around the shoulders) 

The gun! Pick up the little gun pieces! 

Toth raises his rod. 

Buffy and Riley dive away in opposite directions. 

Toth fires at Buffy and misses, 

tearing a big hole in the floor. 

SuaveXANDER: 

Hey, I just made a small cleaning deposit! 

Riley jumps on Toth from behind, making him drop the rod. 

He throws Riley off. 

Riley punches him a few times, 

then Toth head-butts him 

and flings him aside. 

Buffy comes up and kicks Toth a few times, 

punches him a few times, then he picks her up and body-slams her. 

She kicks up as he approaches, 

catching him on the chin. 

She gets up, lands a few more 

kicks and punches, 

and Toth goes down. 

BUFFY: 

Sword! 

Riley grabs the sword from 

the bag of weapons and throws it to her. 

She catches it and stabs Toth. 

He screams and dies. 

Buffy stands up, panting. 

Anya and ScruffyXander 

let go of SuaveXander. 

They all cluster around the corpse. 

SuaveXANDER:

Oh, yeah. That cleaning deposit's gone. 

ScruffyXANDER: 

(gasps) I was thinking the same thing! 

Hey, do you suppose we're both Xander? 

SuaveXander gives him a big grin. 

Anya stares at them. 

Cut to a shot of the two Xanders side-by-side. Now they're dressed the same, both in yellow T-shirts and identical Hawaiian shirts, 

but ScruffyXander's shirt is all dirty 

whereas SuaveXander's is clean, 

and ScruffyXander's hair is much messier. 

ScruffyXANDER: 

Look and admire, ladies. 

We see that they're in the magic shop. 

Willow, Buffy and Anya are in a row 

staring at the Xanders, fascinated. 

In the background we see Riley watching, 

and Giles on the floor making markings with chalk. 

BUFFY: 

(looking closely) 

Look, there's a scar there, 

(pointing at ScruffyXander's forehead) 

and there's the same one right there. 

(pointing at SuaveXander's forehead) 

WILLOW: 

It's all double. 

(pointing) 

This zit, and this ... 

kinda funny dippy thing. 

A-and this weird little hair 

that grows in the wrong way 

(pointing to ScruffyXander's nose) 

ScruffyXANDER: 

Okay! Back off, ladies. 

RILEY: 

Psychologically, this is fascinating. 

Doesn't it make everyone wanna 

lock them in separate rooms 

and do experiments on them? 

Everyone gives him an odd look. 

RILEY: 

Just me, then. 

ANYA: 

So ... you Xanders really do have 

all the same memories, all the same ... 

(looking downward) 

physical attributes?

(Laughs suggestively) 

SuaveXANDER: 

We're completely identical. 

ScruffyXANDER: 

Yeah, we checked out some stuff 

in the car on the way over. 

(Anya frowns in puzzlement) 

Fingerprints! 

ANYA: 

(turning to the others) 

Well, maybe we shouldn't do 

this reintegration thing right away. 

See, I can take the boys home, and ... 

we can all have sex together, and ... 

you know, just slap 'em back 

together in the morning. 

Giles tries not to look appalled. 

Buffy and Riley grin. 

SuaveXANDER: 

She's joking. 

ScruffyXANDER: 

No she's not! She entirely wants 

to have sex with us together. 

Which is ... wrong and, 

and it would be very confusing.

 

GILES: 

(getting up from the floor) 

Uh, uh, we just need to light the candles. 

Also, we should continue to pretend 

we heard none of the disturbing sex talk. 

WILLOW: 

Check. Candles and pretense. 

Everyone moves around getting stuff ready, except the Xanders. 

ANYA: 

It's not like it'd be cheating. 

They're both Xander. 

ScruffyXANDER: 

Now, hold on a sec --

If you weren't putting 

a whammy on people 

with the shiny thing, 

how'd you do it? 

How'd you get the promotion? 

SuaveXANDER: 

Well, I'm good at that stuff. 

ScruffyXANDER: 

I am? 

SuaveXANDER: 

Yeah. 

ScruffyXANDER: 

And hey, how 'bout that lady, huh? 

The apartment manager. 

SuaveXANDER: 

How weird was it when she called me "mister"? 

The Xanders grin goofily at each other. 

WILLOW: 

We're ready. We should do it now. 

(The Xanders turn their grins toward her) 

ANYA: 

What'll we do if this doesn't work? 

XANDERS: 

(unison) 

Kill us both, Spock! 

(They look at each other and laugh delightedly.) 

BUFFY: 

They're ... kinda the same now. 

GILES: 

Yes, he's clearly a bad influence on himself. 

ScruffyXANDER: 

Hey, summon The Goddess. 

Chant the chant. Let's do it. 

WILLOW: 

Actually, it's not that hard. 

Your natural state is to be together. 

Toth's spell is doing all the work 

of keeping you apart. 

I just have to break it. 

So you two ... 

(takes them both and positions 

them inside the chalk markings) 

stand right here. Side by side. 

We don't want you to end up 

with two fronts, now do we? 

ScruffyXANDER: 

Are you sure you know how to do this? 

WILLOW: 

(exhales) 

Here we go. Brace yourselves. 

The two Xanders 

close their eyes 

and prepare. 

WILLOW: 

Let the spell be ended.

 Closeup of a single Xander, 

still with eyes closed. 

XANDER: 

You gotta be kidding. 

"Let the spell be ended," 

that's not gonna work. 

He opens his eyes and sees 

there's only one of him. 

XANDER: 

Oh!

Beyond Superman

“I have to take him back inside myself. 

I can't survive without him. 

I don't want him back. 

He's like an animal, 

a thoughtless, brutal animal, 

and yet it's Me. Me.”

— Kirk/Morrison

“I vowed to PRESERVE Life, 

no matter what —

But somewhere inside, 

I hear The Voice of ULTRAMAN, 

ruthless, pragmatic…

“MANDRAAK,” He Says…

“Mandraak is The OPPOSITE of Life….”

— Morrison/Kirk

“You cannot change 

what you do not accept.”

— C.G. Jung

Ah. 

All I had to do was LET GO.

Let Go of LIMITS, Expectations.... And BE a NEW ADAM.

There. 

...allow Me to Demonstrate Quantum Super-Position as used Defensively.

...a THOUGHT ROBOT activated by the tremendous energies unleashed during the collisions of fundamental OPPOSING QUALITIES.

A New FUSION PROCESS Powered by... "Dualities"?

No. There ARE no Dualities,

Only SYMMETRIES.

What Do YOU Know of Things?

I am The ENDGAME of The Idea That SPAWNED The Likes of You, Ultraman.

I am BEYOND Conflict.

I must RETURN to MY World.

But First, Superman?

Do You DARE Test My Understanding of The NATURE OF REALITY?

Here in Limbo, There is No Material Thing to be destroyed.

Limbo is a Living MEMORY.

That's Why HERE! That's Why US.

"Ultimate Evil is Ultimate Good."

"The Most Despised Will Save The Most Beloved"

...I'm telling Him now.

Germs, Superman.

The Monitors see Us as GERMS. 

"The Most Despised."

Hate Crime.

Meet 

SELFLESS ACT.

I've fused SYMMETRIES.

Enough energie in My Hands to BROADCAST His Pure ESSENCE to a reciever in a HIGHER DIMENSION.

Only SUPERMAN can Save Us Now.

Trans

Young’s contract guaranteed him $1 million per album, as well as total creative control over his output.

From late 1980 to mid-1982, Young spent much of his waking hours carrying out a therapy program for his young son, Ben, who was born with cerebral palsy and unable to speak. Neil disclosed to almost no one at the time that he was doing so, or that the repetitive nature of the songs on both the previous album, Re·ac·tor, and this one related to the exercises he was performing with Ben. Work on Trans began in late 1981 as a continuation of Re·ac·tor, with the usual Crazy Horse lineup. 

But then Young started playing with two new machines he had acquired, a Synclavier and a vocoder. Crazy Horse guitarist Poncho Sampedro recalled, “Next thing we knew, Neil stripped all our music off, overdubbed all this stuff, the vocoder, weird sequencing, and put the synth shit on it.”

Young’s direction was influenced by the electronic experiments of the German band Kraftwerk, but more importantly he felt that distorting his voice reflected his attempts to communicate with his son. “At that time he was simply trying to find a way to talk, to communicate with other people. That’s what Trans is all about. And that’s why, on that record, you know I’m saying something but you can’t understand what it is. Well, that’s exactly the same feeling I was getting from my son.”

Young’s first work for Geffen was a group of songs for an entirely different project, Island in the Sun, recorded in May 1982 in Hawaii. According to Young, it was “a tropical thing all about sailing, ancient civilisations, islands and water.”Young recalled later, “Geffen thought it was okay, but he didn’t think it was good enough.”

Instead of recording more new material, Young went back to the synthesizer tracks, actually recorded in the last days of the Reprise contract, and put together an album of songs from the two very different projects, three from Island in the Sun and six of the synthesizer tracks. Young proposed making a video to go with the album that would have clarified what the album was about. “All of the electronic-voice people were working in a hospital, and the one thing they were trying to do is teach this little baby to push a button.”

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Trans_%28album%29

Creation of a Simple Pattern

GAME FIVE: CREATION OF A SIMPLE PATTERN 

In this game, you stop giving away your control to imaginary forces. The previous games train you to look passively for patterns. In this game, you are going to start creating the pattern of the Synchronistic Events yourself. This game has a simple, but wide frame of reference. You are going to look for SEs happening in any and every place you turn your attention. There are no "others" in this game. Just you and the effect you have on the SEs around you. First, choose a pattern that is easily recognisable and has some interest for you. You are going to build a thoughtform based on your chosen pattern. Might I suggest a power animal? No, I'm not suggesting you try to align yourself with an animal spirit the way our ancestors did. You create your "animal" from your own thoughts and emotions just by thinking about it for 20 minutes a day. If you like, look up power animals on the internet. You will find lists of the various qual- ities different cultures have ascribed to animals. Pick one you want to see. There are African, Native American, European, and Eskimo power animals. You are going to build your own pet thoughtform. I have a few basic suggestions. Pick something you are likely to find in your normal event stream. I like to make owls. The symbol is represented in the culture commonly enough, but is not so common that it is commonplace. If you choose a rare animal, there is less chance the pattern will be available to pattern match. Duck-billed platypuses are harder to pattern-match than wolves, horses, or bears. 

Your brain stores memories and thinks in associative patterns. Some things remind you of similar things immediately because they share the same storage areas in the brain. Creating patterns of SE always follows your brain function. Aiming at one pattern often produces closely as sociated SEs, just as one thought often triggers similar ones. If you try to create a pattern of owl SEs, you typically also get series of generalized bird SEs as well. The stronger you make your owl thoughtform, the more specifically "owl' your SEs become. It is possible Jung saw universalised archetypal patterns in SE because we store and process data in such generalized associations. Studying the fish archetype, triggers whole categories in memory of fish-like things. Jung may have been studying the technology of human biological information storage. He may have been the first person systematically exploring genetic neuro- psychology. Our ancestors survived to reproduce because we specialized in flexible thinking. 

 The more mentally flexible you are around your patterns of association, 

the easier it is to create and read SE. 

By the way, the more fun you have doing this, 

the better the results become.

Stealing Their Stuff

“In the library I found, to my great delight, a vast number of English books, whole shelves full of them, and bound volumes of magazines and newspapers. A table in the centre was littered with English magazines and newspapers, though none of them were of very recent date. The books were of the most varied kind—history, geography, politics, political economy, botany, geology, law—all relating to England and English life and customs and manners. There were even such books of reference as the London Directory, the “Red” and “Blue” books, Whitaker’s Almanac, the Army and Navy Lists, and—it somehow gladdened my heart to see it—the Law List.

Whilst I was looking at the books, the door opened, and the Count entered. He saluted me in a hearty way, and hoped that I had had a good night’s rest. Then he went on:—

“I am glad you found your way in here, for I am sure there is much that will interest you. These companions”—and he laid his hand on some of the books—“have been good friends to me, and for some years past, ever since I had the idea of going to London, have given me many, many hours of pleasure. Through them I have come to know your great England; and to know her is to love her. I long to go through the crowded streets of your mighty London, to be in the midst of the whirl and rush of humanity, to share its life, its change, its death, and all that makes it what it is. But alas! as yet I only know your tongue through books. To you, my friend, I look that I know it to speak.”

“But, Count,” I said, “you know and speak English thoroughly!” He bowed gravely.

“I thank you, my friend, for your all too-flattering estimate, but yet I fear that I am but a little way on the road I would travel. True, I know the grammar and the words, but yet I know not how to speak them.”

“Indeed,” I said, “you speak excellently.”

“Not so,” he answered. “Well, I know that, did I move and speak in your London, none there are who would not know me for a stranger. That is not enough for me. Here I am noble; I am boyar; the common people know me, and I am master. But a stranger in a strange land, he is no one; men know him not—and to know not is to care not for. I am content if I am like the rest, so that no man stops if he see me, or pause in his speaking if he hear my words, ‘Ha, ha! a stranger!’ I have been so long master that I would be master still—or at least that none other should be master of me. You come to me not alone as agent of my friend Peter Hawkins, of Exeter, to tell me all about my new estate in London. You shall, I trust, rest here with me awhile, so that by our talking I may learn the English intonation; and I would that you tell me when I make error, even of the smallest, in my speaking. I am sorry that I had to be away so long to-day; but you will, I know, forgive one who has so many important affairs in hand.”

Of course I said all I could about being willing, and asked if I might come into that room when I chose. 

He answered: “Yes, certainly,” and added:—

“You may go anywhere you wish in the castle, except where the doors are locked, where of course you will not wish to go. There is reason that all things are as they are, and did you see with my eyes and know with my knowledge, you would perhaps better understand.” I said I was sure of this, and then he went on:—

“We are in Transylvania; and Transylvania is not England. Our ways are not your ways, and there shall be to you many strange things. Nay, from what you have told me of your experiences already, you know something of what strange things there may be.”

This led to much conversation; and as it was evident that he wanted to talk, if only for talking’s sake, I asked him many questions regarding things that had already happened to me or come within my notice. Sometimes he sheered off the subject, or turned the conversation by pretending not to understand; but generally he answered all I asked most frankly. Then as time went on, and I had got somewhat bolder, I asked him of some of the strange things of the preceding night, as, for instance, why the coachman went to the places where he had seen the blue flames. He then explained to me that it was commonly believed that on a certain night of the year—last night, in fact, when all evil spirits are supposed to have unchecked sway—a blue flame is seen over any place where treasure has been concealed. “That treasure has been hidden,” he went on, “in the region through which you came last night, there can be but little doubt; for it was the ground fought over for centuries by the Wallachian, the Saxon, and the Turk. Why, there is hardly a foot of soil in all this region that has not been enriched by the blood of men, patriots or invaders. In old days there were stirring times, when the Austrian and the Hungarian came up in hordes, and the patriots went out to meet them—men and women, the aged and the children too—and waited their coming on the rocks above the passes, that they might sweep destruction on them with their artificial avalanches. When the invader was triumphant he found but little, for whatever there was had been sheltered in the friendly soil.”

“But how,” said I, “can it have remained so long undiscovered, when there is a sure index to it if men will but take the trouble to look?” The Count smiled, and as his lips ran back over his gums, the long, sharp, canine teeth showed out strangely; he answered: —

“Because your peasant is at heart a coward and a fool! Those flames only appear on one night; and on that night no man of this land will, if he can help it, stir without his doors. And, dear sir, even if he did he would not know what to do. Why, even the peasant that you tell me of who marked the place of the flame would not know where to look in daylight even for his own work. Even you would not, I dare be sworn, be able to find these places again?”

“There you are right,” I said. “I know no more than the dead where even to look for them.” Then we drifted into other matters.

“Come,” he said at last, “tell me of London and of the house which you have procured for me.” With an apology for my remissness, I went into my own room to get the papers from my bag. Whilst I was placing them in order I heard a rattling of china and silver in the next room, and as I passed through, noticed that the table had been cleared and the lamp lit, for it was by this time deep into the dark. The lamps were also lit in the study or library, and I found the Count lying on the sofa, reading, of all things in the world, an English Bradshaw’s Guide. When I came in he cleared the books and papers from the table; and with him I went into plans and deeds and figures of all sorts. He was interested in everything, and asked me a myriad questions about the place and its surroundings. He clearly had studied beforehand all he could get on the subject of the neighbourhood, for he evidently at the end knew very much more than I did. When I remarked this, he answered:—

“Well, but, my friend, is it not needful that I should? When I go there I shall be all alone, and my friend Harker Jonathan—nay, pardon me, I fall into my country’s habit of putting your patronymic first—my friend Jonathan Harker will not be by my side to correct and aid me. He will be in Exeter, miles away, probably working at papers of the law with my other friend, Peter Hawkins. So!”

We went thoroughly into the business of the purchase of the estate at Purfleet. When I had told him the facts and got his signature to the necessary papers, and had written a letter with them ready to post to Mr. Hawkins, he began to ask me how I had come across so suitable a place. I read to him the notes which I had made at the time, and which I inscribe here:—

“At Purfleet, on a by-road, I came across just such a place as seemed to be required, and where was displayed a dilapidated notice that the place was for sale. It is surrounded by a high wall, of ancient structure, built of heavy stones, and has not been repaired for a large number of years. The closed gates are of heavy old oak and iron, all eaten with rust.

“The estate is called Carfax, no doubt a corruption of the old Quatre Face, as the house is four-sided, agreeing with the cardinal points of the compass. It contains in all some twenty acres, quite surrounded by the solid stone wall above mentioned. There are many trees on it, which make it in places gloomy, and there is a deep, dark-looking pond or small lake, evidently fed by some springs, as the water is clear and flows away in a fair-sized stream. The house is very large and of all periods back, I should say, to mediæval times, for one part is of stone immensely thick, with only a few windows high up and heavily barred with iron. It looks like part of a keep, and is close to an old chapel or church. I could not enter it, as I had not the key of the door leading to it from the house, but I have taken with my kodak views of it from various points. The house has been added to, but in a very straggling way, and I can only guess at the amount of ground it covers, which must be very great. There are but few houses close at hand, one being a very large house only recently added to and formed into a private lunatic asylum. It is not, however, visible from the grounds.”

When I had finished, he said:—

“I am glad that it is old and big. I myself am of an old family, and to live in a new house would kill me. A house cannot be made habitable in a day; and, after all, how few days go to make up a century. I rejoice also that there is a chapel of old times. We Transylvanian nobles love not to think that our bones may lie amongst the common dead. I seek not gaiety nor mirth, not the bright voluptuousness of much sunshine and sparkling waters which please the young and gay. I am no longer young; and my heart, through weary years of mourning over the dead, is not attuned to mirth. Moreover, the walls of my castle are broken; the shadows are many, and the wind breathes cold through the broken battlements and casements. I love the shade and the shadow, and would be alone with my thoughts when I may.” Somehow his words and his look did not seem to accord, or else it was that his cast of face made his smile look malignant and saturnine.

Presently, with an excuse, he left me, asking me to put all my papers together. He was some little time away, and I began to look at some of the books around me. One was an atlas, which I found opened naturally at England, as if that map had been much used. On looking at it I found in certain places little rings marked, and on examining these I noticed that one was near London on the east side, manifestly where his new estate was situated; the other two were Exeter, and Whitby on the Yorkshire coast.

It was the better part of an hour when the Count returned. “Aha!” he said; “still at your books? Good! But you must not work always. Come; I am informed that your supper is ready.” He took my arm, and we went into the next room, where I found an excellent supper ready on the table. The Count again excused himself, as he had dined out on his being away from home. But he sat as on the previous night, and chatted whilst I ate. After supper I smoked, as on the last evening, and the Count stayed with me, chatting and asking questions on every conceivable subject, hour after hour. I felt that it was getting very late indeed, but I did not say anything, for I felt under obligation to meet my host’s wishes in every way. I was not sleepy, as the long sleep yesterday had fortified me; but I could not help experiencing that chill which comes over one at the coming of the dawn, which is like, in its way, the turn of the tide. They say that people who are near death die generally at the change to the dawn or at the turn of the tide; any one who has when tired, and tied as it were to his post, experienced this change in the atmosphere can well believe it. All at once we heard the crow of a cock coming up with preternatural shrillness through the clear morning air; Count Dracula, jumping to his feet, said: —

“Why, there is the morning again! How remiss I am to let you stay up so long. You must make your conversation regarding my dear new country of England less interesting, so that I may not forget how time flies by us,” and, with a courtly bow, he quickly left me.

I went into my own room and drew the curtains, but there was little to notice; my window opened into the courtyard, all I could see was the warm grey of quickening sky. So I pulled the curtains again, and have written of this day.