Quidquid luce fuit, tenebris agit: but also con­trari­wise. What we ex­per­i­ence in dreams, provided we ex­per­i­ence it of­ten, per­tains at last just as much to the gen­eral be­long­ings of our soul as any­thing “ac­tu­ally” ex­per­i­enced; by vir­tue thereof we are richer or poorer, we have a re­quire­ment more or less, and fi­nally, in broad day­light, and even in the bright­est mo­ments of our wak­ing life, we are ruled to some ex­tent by the nature of our dreams. Sup­pos­ing that someone has of­ten flown in his dreams, and that at last, as soon as he dreams, he is con­scious of the power and art of fly­ing as his priv­ilege and his pe­cu­li­arly en­vi­able hap­pi­ness; such a per­son, who be­lieves that on the slight­est im­pulse, he can ac­tu­al­ize all sorts of curves and angles, who knows the sen­sa­tion of a cer­tain di­vine lev­ity, an “up­wards” without ef­fort or con­straint, a “down­wards” without des­cend­ing or lower­ing—without trouble!—how could the man with such dream-ex­per­i­ences and dream-habits fail to find “hap­pi­ness” dif­fer­ently col­oured and defined, even in his wak­ing hours! How could he fail—to long dif­fer­ently for hap­pi­ness? “Flight,” such as is de­scribed by po­ets, must, when com­pared with his own “fly­ing,” be far too earthly, mus­cu­lar, vi­ol­ent, far too “trouble­some” for him.