“Today was a part of November in the year 1783, yet today was marked indelibly. At first he didn’t know how that should be, or why, sensing only vaguely that he was here in his headquarters on Manhattan Island, half asleep, half awake, trying to find himself. He was tired, as he had been so often of late; a man grows tired as the years bind him and add up. He would have liked to lie in bed for a few hours more but he knew that to be quite impossible. He had been dreaming and had awakened from th...e dream, and he knew it was quite wrong—what so many people said, that you couldn’t dream the same thing twice; he knew you could, not twice but a hundred times, and the dream was always the same. In the dream he came home. In the morning he came home, riding up through the fields while they were still wet with dew. He would go through a field of rye so that the dew would put a polish on his boot tops, and the horse would stamp and dance, the way they do in a field of wet grass. The smells would be sweet, the magnolia blossoms like a thousand lanterns; and he rode right up to the house.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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