Dreamtigers

As a boy I had a burning passion for tigers - not the spotted tiger, or jaguar, of the tangled Amazon and the river Paraná's flotillas of water hyacinths, but the striped royal Bengal tiger, which warriors can only confront from a castle on the back of an elephant. I used to loiter for hours by one of the cages at the zoo; I judged vast encyclopedias and natural history books by the splendour of their tigers. (I still remember those plates - I who can barely remember a woman's face or smile.) My boyhood passed, tigers and their passion faded, but still they inhabit my dreams. In this random, buried stratum they still reign. It happens in this way: in my sleep, some dream entices me, and at once I know it's a dream. Then I begin to think, This is a dream, amusement pure and willed, and, possessed now with limitless power, I'm going to create a tiger.

But I bungle it! My dreams never quite engender the hoped-for beast. The tiger appears, to be sure, but he's stuffed and limp, or grossly deformed, or the wrong size, or he's a fleeting shadow, or he looks more like a dog or a bird.

[1934]