Although I’ve recorded and published many dreams, I have not written about sleep itself more than to say in passing that I slept poorly or I slept well, which is, really, a way of avoiding the subject. What a terrible night, I say, — and then move on to other things. Or, That’s the best I’ve slept in forty years, as if I could remember each and every night, and there were an objective way to measure. But I’m tempted to say that like everything, sleep, too, is an art, and that as such, to be understood it must be fully lived and explored. At the same time, it does not seem to me that it can or should be seen as something apart from the waking state. My days inform my nights; my nights inform my days. Or, to put it another way, my days darken my nights; my nights light my days — and vice-versa. There is the tendency, too, to see sleep as complicated, maybe even impossible to understand. But that is only because I forget to approach it as I do a flower.
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