"Through all sorts of changes the
same dream, sometimes after an interval of several years, recurs to
me. I name it the
dream of the double cry. Its
context is always much the same, a "primitive" world meagerly
equipped. I find myself in a vast cave, like the Latomias of Syracuse,
or in a mud building that reminds me when I awake of the villages
of the fellahin, or on the fringe of a gigantic forest whose like
I cannot remember having seen.
The dream begins in very different ways,
but always with something extraordinary happening to me, for instance,
with a small animal resembling a lion-cub (whose name I know in the
dream but not when I awake) tearing the flesh from my arm and being
forced only with an effort to loose its hold. The strange thing is
that this first part of the dream story, which in the duration as
well as the outer meaning of the incidents is easily the most important,
always unrolls at a furious pace as though it did not matter. Then
suddenly the pace abates: I stand there and cry out. In the view of
the events which my waking consciousness has I should have to suppose
that the cry I utter varies in accordance with what preceded it, and
is sometimes joyous, sometimes fearful, sometimes even filled both
with pain and with triumph. But in my morning recollection it is neither
so expressive nor so various. Each time it is the same cry, inarticulate
but in strict rhythm, rising and falling, swelling to a fullness which
my throat could not endure were I awake, long and slow, quiet, quite
slow and very long, a cry that is a song. When it ends my heart stops
beating. But then, somewhere, far away, another cry moves towards
me, another which is the same, the same cry uttered or sung by another
voice. Yet it is not the same cry, certainly no "echo" of
my cry but rather its true rejoinder, tone for tone not repeating
mine, not even in a weakened form, but corresponding to mine, answering
its tones - so much so, that mine, which at first had to my own ear
no sound of questioning at all, now appear as questions, as a long
series of questions, which now all receive a response. The response
is no more capable of interpretation than the question. And yet the
cries that meet the one cry that is the same do not seem to be the
same as on another. Each time the voice is new. But now, as the reply
ends, in the first moment after its dying fall, a certitude, true
dream certitude comes to me that now it has happened. Nothing more.
Just this, and in this way - now it has happened. If I should
try to explain it, it means that that happening which gave rise to
my cry has only now, with the rejoinder, really and undoubtedly happened.
After this manner the dream has recurred
each time - till once, the last time, now two years ago. At first
it was as usual (it was the dream with the animal), my cry died away,
again my heart stood still. But then there was quiet. There came no
answering call. I listened, I heard no sound. For I awaited
the response for the first time; hitherto it had always surprised
me, as though I had never heard it before. Awaited, it failed to come.
But now something happened with me. As though I had till now had no
other access from the world to sensation save that of the ear and
now discovered myself as a being simply equipped with sense, both
those clothed in the bodily organs and the naked senses, so I exposed
myself to the distance, open to all sensation and perception. And
then, not from a distance but from the air round about me, noiselessly,
came the answer. Really it did not come; it was there. It had
been there - so I may explain it - even before my cry: there it was
and now, when I laid myself open to it, it let itself be received
by me. I received it as completely into my perception as ever I received
the rejoinder in one of the earlier dreams. If I were to report with
what I heard it I should have to say "with every pore of my body."
As ever the rejoinder came in one of the earlier dreams this corresponded
to and answered my cry. It exceeded the earlier rejoinder in an unknown
perfection which is hard to define, for it resides in the fact that
it was already there.
When I had reached an end of receiving
it, I felt again that certainty, pealing out more than ever, that
now it has happened."
from chapter 1, "Dialog,"
in Martin Buber's Between Man and Man,
Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1947