“Omally, as ever, slept the sleep of the just, which was quite unjust of him, considering he had no right to do it.”

“Sometimes he did not know if he slept or just thought about sleep.”

“Ned closed his eyes and opened them; it made no difference. He slept and woke and slept again. He did not know which was more painful, the waking or the sleeping. When he slept, he dreamed: dark disturbing dreams of blood and broken promises. When he woke, there was nothing to do but think, and his waking thoughts were worse than nightmares.”

“What a wonderful sleep it had been! Never had sleep so refreshed him, so renewed him, so rejuvenated him! Perhaps he had really died, perhaps he had been drowned and was reborn in another form. No, he recognized himself, he recognized his hands and feet, the place where he lay and the Self in his breast, Siddhartha, self-willed, individualistic. But this Siddhartha was somewhat changed, renewed. He had slept wonderfully. He was remarkably awake, happy and curious.”

“Right." He smiled bitterly. "Well, look around. Just look. Have you ever considered the possibility that God might be insane?”

“I must not sleep. If he slept, he might dream.”