A World of My Own: A Dream Diary by Graham Greene

By Graham Greene

Graham Greene was once continuously deeply drawn to the position performed by means of the unconscious in his writing, and the personal global of his desires used to be one who he nurtured rigorously, recording it virtually day-by-day in his dream diaries. opting for from those dream diaries, he ready this small treasure for ebook ahead of his demise in 1991—a final present from a superb author to thrill and entertain his readers.

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Extra resources for A World of My Own: A Dream Diary

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I told him about the lack of control I was exercising over who I was having sex with. It was a right lot of nonsense going on. I was pursuing hanky-panky like it was a job, like there was a league table that I had to be at the summit of. * The clinic, when we found it, was in the middle of this square in some quiet Philadelphia suburb. The house looked like a normal American family home does—you know, where they’ve got the sloping roof to the porch bit and gardens around it, a bit like where the Waltons lived, all pastoral and sweet, but with John-Boy chained up in the mop cupboard scrabbling around trying to fiddle with his goolies through a mask of tears.

Even though there were times when he had loads of money, he never met the £25-a-week maintenance payments that he was required to make, and this exacerbated the impoverishment of the household I grew up in. Mum once showed me the agreement which said how much he was meant to send, and when I saw him, it was my duty to try to get it off him. My mum did numerous jobs—taking me with her until I began playschool, where I was frequently in trouble, having daily tantrums when she left me behind. Ridicu-larse to get in trouble at playschool really.

They were linked together by underground tunnels, in which you’d have to completely trust yourself—walking into absolute, terrifying darkness, within which anything could lurk. There was a strong stink of damp, the occasional crisp-packet, discarded solvents and evidence of sexual congress. There was a burned-out car, and a pervasive sense that tramps might have been there. The whole place had a mythical air about it and—informed as I was by reading C. S. Lewis and Enid Blyton at a very early age—it felt like a fantastic kingdom.

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