Life, What Is It But A Dream?

My daughter woke up one morning laughing her head off because she'd remembered that life on earth is just one big game of let's pretend.

I've never had a revelation quite like that, but I've had dreams in which I could fly, or in which I returned to the old homestead and knew- just knew- that this was the true reality.

We are spirits- and we pass into incarnation on a regular basis to pursue our education- or maybe just for fun. The self is a suit of clothes.

I was reading an article in a newspaper yesterday which deplored the fact that we go through life hardly ever thinking about death. We? Who exactly is this "we"? I think about death all the time.

Re-reading Belloc 2

Belloc is an expensive author. I've been looking at what they ask for his books on the secondhand market- and there's little for under ten pounds. Some titles go for three figure sums.

I used to collect his work. He was out of favour and cheap.  I paid 50p for my first edition of The Four Men. Then money got tight and I sold all except the Four Men (which is the book of his I love best) for what would now be a pittance. I'd like to replace my collection, but I can't afford to- not at current prices. 

I'm going to re-read The Four Men. It's the account of a wander through Sussex. Belloc calls it a farrago- which is a good name for a book in which one cuts loose and does as one pleases. The four men of the title are aspects of Belloc himself- grizzlebeard, the sailor, the poet (who is a bit of a weed) and "myself". They talk and argue, tell tall stories and sing songs.  Belloc also drew and painted the pictures.