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；