The Dream of the Perfect Book

I was sleeping at my uncle's house in Hookwood when I had the dream of the perfect book. Page after page, it was written expressly for me. It was, in fact, the perfect mirror of my own mind laid out for my eyes to read, in words that captured everything with unfailing and comprehensive precision. The author of this perfect book, in my dream that night, was none other than God, though this went without saying, the unerring conclusion to which my dreaming mind leapt. The existence of the book proved the existence of God, and in my dream I somehow became aware that when I awoke all I would have to do is transcribe the pages that appeared to me in my dream and I would have successfully authored the perfect book myself, proving the existence of God by a kind of mystical calculus and simultaneously establishing myself as not only an author, but as the most significant author of my time, of all time, even.

I awoke from the dream in the night feeling wonderful and excited, and blessed that I had had such a dream. I knew that I should take up pen and paper immediately.

But it was dark, and my bed was comfortable. And there was some complicating feature of the perfect book in my dream. It seemed that God had written it in a mosaic of cut-out bits of newsprint, fonts all haphazard. Somehow, at various points in the book, or in the center of the book, certain words or phrases or sentences spoke to me, letting me know that they were meant for me. There was something tricky and magical about this, and I realized even in my sleepy state that the certainty I had felt about being able simply to transcribe the pages I had seen was itself just another part of the dream.