Last night I dreamt of Jacques Derrida. Not Derrida himself exactly, but his books, I dreamt of his books. I dreamt that he had written a new book and that someone had given me a copy as a gift. In the dream I unwrapped the paper, I held the book, and my joy was palpable. I took the new book to my shelf. It was a special shelf in my house, very precious to me because it contained in chronological order all the works of Jacques Derrida, my favourite author.
I woke stricken, distraught, sick with confusion and remorse. Has the self no integrity? Is nothing true? Can one person become another in a dream?
St Augustine was right: "The moment when I pass from wakefulness to sleep, or return again from sleep to wakefulness, marks a great difference in me."