“It was probably just envious.”
“How can I get the centipede to stop dancing? thought the tortoise. He couldn’t just say he didn’t like the dance. Neither could he say he danced better himself, that would obviously be untrue. So he devised a fiendish plan.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“He sat down and wrote a letter to the centipede. ‘O incomparable centipede,’ he wrote, ‘I am a devoted admirer of your exquisite dancing. I must know how you go about it when you dance. Is it that you lift your left leg number 28 and then your right leg number 39? Or do you begin by lifting your right leg number 17 before you lift your left leg number 44? I await your answer in breathless anticipation. Yours truly, Tortoise.”
“How mean!”
“When the centipede read the letter, she immediately began to think about what she actually did when she danced. Which leg did she lift first? And which leg next? What do you think happened in the end?”
“The centipede never danced again?”
“That’s exactly what happened. And that’s the way it goes when imagination gets strangled by reasoned deliberation.”
“That was a sad story.”
“It is important for an artist to be able to ‘let go.’ The surrealists tried to exploit this by putting themselves into a state where things just happened by themselves. They had a sheet of white paper in front of them and they began to write without thinking about what they wrote. They called it automatic writing. The expression originally comes from spiritualism, where a medium believed that a departed spirit was guiding the pen. But I thought we would talk more about that kind of thing tomorrow.”
“I’d like that.”
“In one sense, the surrealist artist is also a medium, that is to say, a means or a link. He is a medium of his own unconscious. But perhaps there is an element of the unconscious in every creative process, for what do we actually mean by creativity?”
“I’ve no idea. Isn’t it when you create something?”
“Fair enough, and that happens in a delicate interplay between imagination and reason. But all too frequently, reason throttles the imagination, and that’s serious because without imagination, nothing really new will ever be created. I believe imagination is like a Darwinian system.”
“I’m sorry, but that I didn’t get.”
“Well, Darwinism holds that nature’s mutants arise one after the other, but only a few of them can be used. Only some of them get the right to live.”
“So?”
“That’s how it is when we have an inspiration and get masses of new ideas. Thought-mutants occur in the consciousness one after the other, at least if we refrain from censoring ourselves too much. But only some of these thoughts can be used. Here, reason comes into its own.
It, too, has a vital function. When the day’s catch is laid on the table we must not forget to be selective.”
“That’s not a bad comparison.”
“Imagine if everything that ‘strikes us’ were allowed to pass our lips! Not to speak of jumping off our notepads out of our desk drawers! The world would sink under the weight of casual impulses and no selection would have taken place.”
“So it’s reason that chooses between all these ideas?”
“Yes, don’t you think so? Maybe the imagination creates what is new, but the imagination does not make the actual selection. The imagination does not ‘compose.’ A composition—and every work of art is one—is created in a wondrous interplay between imagination and reason, or between mind and reflection. For there will always be an element of chance in the creative process. You have to turn the sheep loose before you can start to herd them.”
Alberto sat quite still, staring out of the window. While he sat there, Sophie suddenly noticed a crowd of brightly colored Disney figures down by the lake.
“There’s Goofy,” she exclaimed, “and Donald Duck and his nephews ... Look, Alberto. There’s Mickey Mouse and . . .”
He turned toward her: “Yes, it’s very sad, child.”
“What do you mean?”
“Here we are being made the helpless victims of the major’s flock of sheep. But it’s my own fault, of course. I was the one who started talking about free association of ideas.”
“You certainly don’t have to blame yourself...”
“I was going to say something about the importance of imagination to us philosophers. In order to think new thoughts, we must be bold enough to let ourselves go. But right now, he’s going a bit far.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I was about to mention the importance of reflection, and here we are, presented with this lurid imbecility. He should be ashamed of himself!”
“Are you being ironic now?”
“It’s he who is ironic, not me. But I have one comfort—and that is the whole cornerstone of my plan.”
“Now I’m really confused.”
“We have talked about dreams. There’s a touch of irony about that too. For what are we but the major’s dream images?”
“Ah!”
“But there is still one thing he hasn’t counted on.”
“What’s that?”
“Maybe he is embarrassingly aware of his own dream. He is aware of everything we say and do—just as the dreamer remembers the dream’s manifest dream aspect. It is he who wields it with his pen. But even if he remembers everything we say to each other, he is still not quite awake.”
“What do you mean?”
“He does not know the latent dream thoughts, Sophie. He forgets that this too is a disguised dream.”
“You are talking so strangely.”
“The major thinks so too. That is because he does not understand his own dream language. Let us be thankful for that. That gives us a tiny bit of elbow room, you see. And with this elbow room we shall soon fight our way out of his muddy consciousness like water voles frisking about in the sun on a summer’s day.”
“Do you think we’ll make it?”
“We must. Within a couple of days I shall give you a new horizon. Then the major will no longer know where the water voles are or where they will pop up next time.”
“But even if we are only dream images, I am still my mother’s daughter. And it’s five o’clock. I have to go home to Captain’s Bend and prepare for the garden party.”
“Hmm ... can you do me a small favor on the way home?”
“What?”
“Try to attract a little extra attention. Try to get the major to keep his eye on you all the way home. Try and think about him when you get home—and he’ll think about you too.”
“What good will that do?”
“Then I can carry on undisturbed with my work on the secret plan. I’m going to dive down into the major’s unconscious. That’s where I’ll be until we meet again.”
Our Own Time
... man is condemned to be free…
The alarm clock showed 11:55 p.m. Hilde lay staring at the ceiling. She tried to let her associations flow freely. Each time she finished a chain of thoughts, she tried to ask herself why.
