ere, if anything,
harder to bear than my delusions of the day, for what little reason I
had was absolutely suspended in sleep. Almost every night my brain was
at battledore and shuttlecock with weird thoughts. And if not all my
dreams were terrifying, this fact seemed to be only because a perverted
and perverse Reason, in order that its possessor might not lose the
capacity for suffering, knew how to keep Hope alive with visions which
supplied the contrast necessary for keen appreciation.

No man can be born again, but I believe I came as near it as ever a man
did. To leave behind what was in reality a hell, and immediately have
this good green earth revealed in more glory than most men ever see it,
was one of the compensating privileges which make me feel that my
suffering was worth while.

I have already described the peculiar sensation which assailed me when,
in June, 1900, I lost my reason. At that time my brain felt as though
pricked by a million needles at white heat. On this August 30th, 1902,
shortly after largely regaining my reason, I had another most distinct
sensation in the brain. It started under my brow and gradually spread
until the entire surface was affected. The throes of a dying Reason had
been torture. The sensations felt as my dead Reason was reborn were
delightful. It seemed as though the refreshing breath of some kind
Goddess of Wisdom were being gently blown against the surface of my
brain. It was a sensation not unlike that produced by a menthol pencil
rubbed ever so gently over a fevered brow. So delicate, so crisp and
exhilarating was it that words fail me in my attempt to describe it.
Few, if any, experiences can be more delightful. If the exaltation
produced by some drugs is anything like it, I can easily understand how
and why certain pernicious habits enslave those who contract them. For
me, however, this experience was liberation, not enslavement.

XIII

After two years of silence I found it no easy matter to carry on with
my brother a sustained conversation. So weak were my vocal cords from
lack of use that every few minutes I must either rest or whisper. And
upon pursing my lips I found myself unable to whistle, notwithstanding
the popular belief, drawn from vague memories of small-boyhood, that
this art is instinctive. Those who all their lives have talked at will
cannot possibly appreciate the enjoyment I found in using my regained
power of speech. Reluctantly I returned