I have said that in my dreams I never saw a human being. Of this fact I
became aware very early, and felt poignantly the lack of my own kind.
As a very little child, even, I had a feeling, in the midst of the
horror of my dreaming, that if I could find but one man, only one
human, I should be saved from my dreaming, that I should be surrounded
no more by haunting terrors. This thought obsessed me every night of my
life for years—if only I could find that one human and be saved!
I must iterate that I had this thought in the midst of my dreaming, and
I take it as an evidence of the merging of my two personalities, as
evidence of a point of contact between the two disassociated parts of
me. My dream personality lived in the long ago, before ever man, as we
know him, came to be; and my other and wake-a-day personality projected
itself, to the extent of the knowledge of man’s existence, into the
substance of my dreams.
Perhaps the psychologists of the book will find fault with my way of
using the phrase, “disassociation of personality.” I know their use of
it, yet am compelled to use it in my own way in default of a better
phrase. I take shelter behind the inadequacy of the English language.
And now to the explanation of my use, or misuse, of the phrase.
It was not till I was a young man, at college, that I got any clew to
the significance of my dreams, and to the cause of them. Up to that
time they had been meaningless and without apparent causation. But at
college I discovered evolution and psychology, and learned the
explanation of various strange mental states and experiences. For
instance, there was the falling-through-space dream—the commonest dream
experience, one practically known, by first-hand experience, to all
men.
This, my professor told me, was a racial memory. It dated back to our
remote ancestors who lived in trees. With them, being tree-dwellers,
the liability of falling was an ever-present menace. Many lost their
lives that way; all of them experienced terrible falls, saving
themselves by clutching branches as they fell toward the ground.
Now a terrible fall, averted in such fashion, was productive of shock.
Such shock was productive of molecular changes in the cerebral cells.
These molecular changes were transmitted to the cerebral cells of
progeny, became, in short, racial memories. Thus, when you and I,
asleep or dozing off to sleep, fall through space and awake to
sickening consciousness just before we strike, we are merely
remembering what happened to our arboreal ancestors, and which has been
stamped by cerebral changes into the heredity of the race.
There is nothing strange in this, any more than there is anything
strange in an instinct. An instinct is merely a habit that is stamped
into the stuff of our heredity, that is all. It will be noted, in
passing, that in this falling dream which is so familiar to you and me
and all of us, we never strike bottom. To strike bottom would be
destruction. Those of our arboreal ancestors who struck bottom died
forthwith. True, the shock of their fall was communicated to the
cerebral cells, but they died immediately, before they could have
progeny. You and I are descended from those that did not strike bottom;
that is why you and I, in our dreams, never strike bottom.
And now we come to disassociation of personality. We never have this
sense of falling when we are wide awake. Our wake-a-day personality has
no experience of it. Then—and here the argument is irresistible—it must
be another and distinct personality that falls when we are asleep, and
that has had experience of such falling—that has, in short, a memory of
past-day race experiences, just as our wake-a-day personality has a
memory of our wake-a-day experiences.
It was at this stage in my reasoning that I began to see the light. And
quickly the light burst upon me with dazzling brightness, illuminating
and explaining all that had been weird and uncanny and unnaturally
impossible in my dream experiences. In my sleep it was not my
wake-a-day personality that took charge of me; it was another and
distinct personality, possessing a new and totally different fund of
experiences, and, to the point of my dreaming, possessing memories of
those totally different experiences.
What was this personality? When had it itself lived a wake-a-day life
on this planet in order to collect this fund of strange experiences?
These were questions that my dreams themselves answered. He lived in
the long ago, when the world was young, in that period that we call the
Mid-Pleistocene. He fell from the trees but did not strike bottom. He
gibbered with fear at the roaring of the lions. He was pursued by
beasts of prey, struck at by deadly snakes. He chattered with his kind
in council, and he received rough usage at the hands of the Fire People
in the day that he fled before them.
But, I hear you objecting, why is it that these racial memories are not
ours as well, seeing that we have a vague other-personality that falls
through space while we sleep?
And I may answer with another question. Why is a two-headed calf? And
my own answer to this is that it is a freak. And so I answer your
question. I have this other-personality and these complete racial
memories because I am a freak.
But let me be more explicit.
The commonest race memory we have is the falling-through-space dream.
This other-personality is very vague. About the only memory it has is
that of falling. But many of us have sharper, more distinct
other-personalities. Many of us have the flying dream, the
pursuing-monster dream, color dreams, suffocation dreams, and the
reptile and vermin dreams. In short, while this other-personality is
vestigial in all of us, in some of us it is almost obliterated, while
in others of us it is more pronounced. Some of us have stronger and
completer race memories than others.
It is all a question of varying degree of possession of the
other-personality. In myself, the degree of possession is enormous. My
other-personality is almost equal in power with my own personality. And
in this matter I am, as I said, a freak—a freak of heredity.
I do believe that it is the possession of this other-personality—but
not so strong a one as mine—that has in some few others given rise to
belief in personal reincarnation experiences. It is very plausible to
such people, a most convincing hypothesis. When they have visions of
scenes they have never seen in the flesh, memories of acts and events
dating back in time, the simplest explanation is that they have lived
before.
But they make the mistake of ignoring their own duality. They do not
recognize their other-personality. They think it is their own
personality, that they have only one personality; and from such a
premise they can conclude only that they have lived previous lives.
But they are wrong. It is not reincarnation. I have visions of myself
roaming through the forests of the Younger World; and yet it is not
myself that I see but one that is only remotely a part of me, as my
father and my grandfather are parts of me less remote. This other-self
of mine is an ancestor, a progenitor of my progenitors in the early
line of my race, himself the progeny of a line that long before his
time developed fingers and toes and climbed up into the trees.
I must again, at the risk of boring, repeat that I am, in this one
thing, to be considered a freak. Not alone do I possess racial memory
to an enormous extent, but I possess the memories of one particular and
far-removed progenitor. And yet, while this is most unusual, there is
nothing over-remarkable about it.
Follow my reasoning. An instinct is a racial memory. Very good. Then
you and I and all of us receive these memories from our fathers and
mothers, as they received them from their fathers and mothers.
Therefore there must be a medium whereby these memories are transmitted
from generation to generation. This medium is what Weismann terms the
“germplasm.” It carries the memories of the whole evolution of the
race. These memories are dim and confused, and many of them are lost.
But some strains of germplasm carry an excessive freightage of
memories—are, to be scientific, more atavistic than other strains; and
such a strain is mine. I am a freak of heredity, an atavistic
nightmare—call me what you will; but here I am, real and alive, eating
three hearty meals a day, and what are you going to do about it?
And now, before I take up my tale, I want to anticipate the doubting
Thomases of psychology, who are prone to scoff, and who would otherwise
surely say that the coherence of my dreams is due to overstudy and the
subconscious projection of my knowledge of evolution into my dreams. In
the first place, I have never been a zealous student. I graduated last
of my class. I cared more for athletics, and—there is no reason I
should not confess it—more for billiards.
Further, I had no knowledge of evolution until I was at college,
whereas in my childhood and youth I had already lived in my dreams all
the details of that other, long-ago life. I will say, however, that
these details were mixed and incoherent until I came to know the
science of evolution. Evolution was the key. It gave the explanation,
gave sanity to the pranks of this atavistic brain of mine that, modern
and normal, harked back to a past so remote as to be contemporaneous
with the raw beginnings of mankind.
For in this past I know of, man, as we to-day know him, did not exist.
It was in the period of his becoming that I must have lived and had my
being.