A DREAMED BOOK Once I saw a book in my dream. I don't know what this book was about. I don't know what this book was. Most probably it was a world. A whole world. Such a book can be nothing but the whole world, nothing else. It can't be a part of it, an unimportant piece, a trifle. It was so many times smaller than the world, but it contained the whole world. This is what the book was like. It had an enormous architecture, awesome structure. Exactly like the world – couldn't have another if it was the world. I had it in my hands. I kept it. I could open it, I could turn the pages, though in this very case “turn” sounds imprecise, not accurate, much too simple, maybe rude, even arrogant. The book was absolutely real. And obvious. Like a flower is. But its cleverness and smartness was astonishing. All its elements were so clear: meanders of the text, surprising openings and even more surprising shutings, somersaults of action, vertigo caused by spaces piling up ..... I woke up and still had it in my head. It was there as if standing on a shelf, or maybe was hovering, weightless in spite of its physicality. I was walking with it, and it didn't fade away, didn't disappear in the never visited corners of my memory. I wanted to tell someone about it. There was nobody at home, so I was ready to go out and look for someone, meet anybody, though it should not be just anybody, when I realized I could not say even one full sentence about it. I could not even mumble about it, because no words were suitable to describe it. So I sat at the table, took a sheet of paper and a pencil. And I drew nothing, I felt as if my hand forgot everything it had ever learnt – surprisingly my hand was happy for it didn't have to try to replace this multidimensional, multilevel, multilayer, so complex reality into a flat tangle of grey lines whatever subtle and exquisite they were. I put the pencil away, took the paper sheet and tried to make a mock-up of the book I had in my head. Again nothing. Absolutely nothing. Total powerlessness, paralysing impotence. It seemed I should sink into depression due to this overwhelming weakness. Yet nothing like that happened. Neither depression, nor suppression, no repression, no oppression, no pression... I have never ever dreamt this book again. I feel no regret, no rancour, no remorse. I'm not offended, I don't suffer a nervous breakdown. It had happened. That's all. Case closed. <<<