All my life I have had an awareness of other times and places. I have been aware of otherpersons in me.-Oh, and trust me, so have you, my reader that is to be. Read back into yourchildhood, and this sense of awareness I speak of will be remembered as an experience ofyour childhood. You were then not fixed, not crystallized. You were plastic, a soul in flux, aconsciousness and an identity in the process of forming-ay, of forming and forgetting.You have forgotten much, my reader, and yet, as you read these lines, you remember dimlythe hazy vistas of other times and places into which your child eyes peered. They seemdreams to you to-day. Yet, if they were dreams, dreamed then, whence the substance ofthem? Our dreams are grotesquely compounded of the things we know. The stuff of oursheerest dreams is the stuff of our experience. As a child, a wee child, you dreamed you fellgreat heights; you dreamed you flew through the air as things of the air fly; you were vexedby crawling spiders and many-legged creatures of the slime; you heard other voices, sawother faces nightmarishly familiar, and gazed upon sunrises and sunsets other than youknow now, looking back, you ever looked upon.