In the bed the writer had a dream that was not a dream.  As he grew somewhat sleepy but was still conscious, figures began to appear before his eyes.  He imagined the young indescribable thing within himself was driving a long procession of figures before his eyes.

You see the interest in all this lies in the figures that went before the eyes of the writer.  They were all grotesques.  All of the men and women the writer had ever known had become grotesques.

The grotesques were not all horrible.  Some were amusing, some almost beautiful, and one, a woman all drawn out of shape, hurt the old man by her grotesqueness.  When she passed he made a noise like a small dog whimpering.  Had you come into the room you might have supposed the old man had unpleasant dreams or perhaps indigestion.

For an hour the procession of grotesques passed before the eyes of the old man, and then, although it was a painful thing to do, he crept out of bed and began to write.  Some one of the grotesques had made a deep impression on his mind and he wanted to describe it.

At his desk the writer worked for an hour.  In the end he wrote a book which he called “The Book of the Grotesque.”  It was never published, but I saw it once and it made an indelible impression on my mind.  The book had one central thought that is very strange and has always remained with me.  By remembering it I have been able to understand many people and things that I was never able to understand before.  The thought was involved but a simple statement of it would be something like this: 

That in the beginning when the world was young there were a great many thoughts but no such thing as a truth.  Man made the truths himself and each truth was a composite of a great many vague thoughts.  All about in the world were the truths and they were all beautiful.

The old man had listed hundreds of the truths in his book.  I will not try to tell you of all of them.  There was the truth of virginity and the truth of passion, the truth of wealth and of poverty, of thrift and of profligacy, of carelessness and abandon.  Hundreds and hundreds were the truths and they were all beautiful.

And then the people came along.  Each as he appeared snatched up one of the truths and some who were quite strong snatched up a dozen of them.

It was the truths that made the people grotesques.  The old man had quite an elaborate theory concerning the matter.  It was his notion that the moment one of the people took one of the truths to himself, called it his truth, and tried to live his life by it, he became a grotesque and the truth he embraced became a falsehood.

You can see for yourself how the old man, who had spent all of his life writing and was filled with words, would write hundreds of pages concerning this matter.  The subject would become so big in his mind that he himself would be in danger of becoming a grotesque.  He didn’t, I suppose, for the same reason that he never published the book.  It was the young thing inside him that saved the old man.