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Yes； was my thought； our experiences ARE the stuff of our dreams。
〃When I was a night messenger I hit the hop once；〃 Oppenheimer
continued。 〃And I want to tell you you haven't anything on me when
it came to seeing things。 I guess that is what all the novel…
writers dohit the hop so as to throw their imagination into the
high gear。〃
But Ed Morrell； who had travelled the same road as I； although with
different results； believed my tale。 He said that when his body
died in the jacket； and he himself went forth from prison； he was
never anybody but Ed Morrell。 He never experienced previous
existences。 When his spirit wandered free； it wandered always in
the present。 As he told us； just as he was able to leave his body
and gaze upon it lying in the jacket on the cell floor； so could he
leave the prison； and； in the present； revisit San Francisco and see
what was occurring。 In this manner he had visited his mother twice；
both times finding her asleep。 In this spirit…roving he said he had
no power over material things。 He could not open or close a door；
move any object； make a noise； nor manifest his presence。 On the
other hand； material things had no power over him。 Walls and doors
were not obstacles。 The entity； or the real thing that was he； was
thought； spirit。
〃The grocery store on the corner； half a block from where mother
lived； changed hands；〃 he told us。 〃I knew it by the different sign
over the place。 I had to wait six months after that before I could
write my first letter； but when I did I asked mother about it。 And
she said yes； it had changed。〃
〃Did you read that grocery sign？〃 Jake Oppenheimer asked。
〃Sure thing I did；〃 was Morrell's response。 〃Or how could I have
known it？〃
〃All right；〃 rapped Oppenheimer the unbelieving。 〃You can prove it
easy。 Some time； when they shift some decent guards on us that will
give us a peep at a newspaper； you get yourself thrown into the
jacket； climb out of your body； and sashay down to little old
'Frisco。 Slide up to Third and Market just about two or three a。m。
when they are running the morning papers off the press。 Read the
latest news。 Then make a swift sneak for San Quentin； get here
before the newspaper tug crosses the bay； and tell me what you read。
Then we'll wait and get a morning paper； when it comes in； from a
guard。 Then； if what you told me is in that paper； I am with you to
a fare…you…well。〃
It was a good test。 I could not but agree with Oppenheimer that
such a proof would be absolute。 Morrell said he would take it up
some time； but that he disliked to such an extent the process of
leaving 'his body that he would not make the attempt until such time
that his suffering in the jacket became too extreme to be borne。
〃That is the way with all of themwon't come across with the
goods；〃 was Oppenheimer's criticism。 〃My mother believed in
spirits。 When I was a kid she was always seeing them and talking
with them and getting advice from them。 But she never come across
with any goods from them。 The spirits couldn't tell her where the
old man could nail a job or find a gold…mine or mark an eight…spot
in Chinese lottery。 Not on your life。 The bunk they told her was
that the old man's uncle had had a goitre； or that the old man's
grandfather had died of galloping consumption； or that we were going
to move house inside four months； which last was dead easy； seeing
as we moved on an average of six times a year。〃
I think； had Oppenheimer had the opportunity for thorough education；
he would have made a Marinetti or a Haeckel。 He was an earth…man in
his devotion to the irrefragable fact； and his logic was admirable
though frosty。 〃You've got to show me；〃 was the ground rule by
which he considered all things。 He lacked the slightest iota of
faith。 This was what Morrell had pointed out。 Lack of faith had
prevented Oppenheimer from succeeding in achieving the little death
in the jacket。
You will see； my reader； that it was not all hopelessly bad in
solitary。 Given three minds such as ours； there was much with which
to while away the time。 It might well be that we kept one another
from insanity； although I must admit that Oppenheimer rotted five
years in solitary entirely by himself； ere Morrell joined him； and
yet had remained sane。
On the other hand； do not make the mistake of thinking that life in
solitary was one wild orgy of blithe communion and exhilarating
psychological research。
We had much and terrible pain。 Our guards were brutesyour hang…
dogs； citizen。 Our surroundings were vile。 Our food was filthy；
monotonous； innutritious。 Only men； by force of will； could live on
so unbalanced a ration。 I know that our prize cattle； pigs； and
sheep on the University Demonstration Farm at Davis would have faded
away and died had they received no more scientifically balanced a
ration than what we received。
We had no books to read。 Our very knuckle…talk was a violation of
the rules。 The world； so far as we were concerned； practically did
not exist。 It was more a ghost…world。 Oppenheimer； for instance；
had never seen an automobile or a motor…cycle。 News did
occasionally filter inbut such dim； long…after…the…event； unreal
news。 Oppenheimer told me he had not learned of the Russo…Japanese
war until two years after it was over。
We were the buried alive； the living dead。 Solitary was our tomb；
in which； on occasion； we talked with our knuckles like spirits
rapping at a seance。
News？ Such little things were news to us。 A change of bakerswe
could tell it by our bread。 What made Pie…face Jones lay off a
week？ Was it vacation or sickness？ Why was Wilson； on the night
shift for only ten days； transferred elsewhere？ Where did Smith get
that black eye？ We would speculate for a week over so trivial a
thing as the last。
Some convict given a month in solitary was an event。 And yet we
could learn nothing from such transient and ofttimes stupid Dantes
who would remain in our inferno too short a time to learn knuckle…
talk ere they went forth again into the bright wide world of the
living。
Still； again； all was not so trivial in our abode of shadows。 As
example； I taught Oppenheimer to play chess。 Consider how
tremendous such an achievement isto teach a man； thirteen cells
away； by means of knuckle…raps； to teach him to visualize a
chessboard； to visualize all the pieces； pawns and positions； to
know the various manners of moving； and to teach him it all so
thoroughly that he and I； by pure visualization； were in the end
able to play entire games of chess in our minds。 In the end； did I
say？ Another tribute to the magnificence of Oppenheimer's mind： in
the end he became my master at the gamehe who had never seen a
chessman in his life。
What image of a bishop； for instance； could possibly form in his
mind when I rapped our code…sign for BISHOP？ In vain and often I
asked him this very question。 In vain he tried to describe in words
that mental image of something he had never seen but which
nevertheless he was able to handle in such masterly fashion as to
bring confusion upon me countless times in the course of play。
I can only contemplate such exhibitions of will and spirit and
conclude； as I so often conclude； that precisely there resides
reality。 The spirit only is real。 The flesh is phantasmagoria and
apparitional。 I ask you howI repeat； I ask you HOW matter or
flesh in any form can play chess on an imaginary board with
imaginary pieces； across a vacuum of thirteen cell spanned only with
knuckle…taps？
CHAPTER XV
I was once Adam Strang； an Englishman。 The period of my living； as
near as I can guess it； was somewhere between 1550 and 1650； and I
lived to a ripe old age； as you shall see。 It has been a great
regret to me； ever since Ed Morrell taught me the way of the little
death； that I had not been a more thorough student of history。 I
should have been able to identity and place much that is obscure to
me。 As it is； I am compelled to grope and guess my way to times and
places of my earlier existences。
A peculiar thing about my Adam Strang existence is that I recollect
so little of the first thirty years of it。 Many times； in the
jacket； has Adam Strang recrudesced； but always he springs into
being full…statured； heavy…thewed； a full thirty years of age。
I； Adam Strang； invariably assume my consciousness on a group of
low； sandy islands somewhere under the equator in what must be the
western Pacific Ocean。 I am always at home there； and seem to have
been there some time。 There are thousands of people on these
islands； although I am the only white man。 The natives are a
magnificent breed； big…muscled； broad…shouldered； tall。 A six…foot
man is a commonplace。 The king； Raa Kook； is at least six inches
above six feet；