I beg my reader to aid me in the endeavour to make myself intelligible--if here understanding be indeed possible between us. I was in a world, or call it a state of things, an economy of conditions, an idea of existence, so little correspondent with the ways and modes of this world--which we are apt to think the only world, that the best choice I can make of word or phrase is but an adumbration of what I would convey. I begin indeed to fear that I have undertaken an impossibility, undertaken to tell what I cannot tell because no speech at my command will fit the forms in my mind. Already I have set down statements I would gladly change did I know how to substitute a truer utterance; but as often as I try to fit the reality with nearer words, I find myself in danger of losing the things themselves, and feel like one in process of awaking from a dream, with the thing that seemed familiar gradually yet swiftly changing through a succession of forms until its very nature is no longer recognisable. I bethought me that a bird capable of addressing a man must have the right of a man to a civil answer; perhaps, as a bird, even a greater claim. A tendency to croak caused a certain roughness in his speech, but his voice was not disagreeable, and what he said, although conveying little enlightenment, did not sound rude. “I did not come through any door,” I rejoined. “I saw you come through it!--saw you with my own ancient eyes!” asserted the raven, positively but not disrespectfully. “I never saw any door!” I persisted. “Of course not!” he returned; “all the doors you had yet seen--and you haven’t seen many--were doors in; here you came upon a door out! The strange thing to you,” he went on thoughtfully, “will be, that the more doors you go out of, the farther you get in!” “Oblige me by telling me where I am.” “That is impossible. You know nothing about whereness. The only way to come to know where you are is to begin to make yourself at home.” “How am I to begin that where everything is so strange?” “By doing something.” “What?” “Anything; and the sooner you begin the better! for until you are at home, you will find it as difficult to get out as it is to get in.” “I have, unfortunately, found it too easy to get in; once out I shall not try again!” “You have stumbled in, and may, possibly, stumble out again. Whether you have got in UNFORTUNATELY remains to be seen.” “Do you never go out, sir?” “When I please I do, but not often, or for long. Your world is such a half-baked sort of place, it is at once so childish and so self-satisfied--in fact, it is not sufficiently developed for an old raven--at your service!” “Am I wrong, then, in presuming that a man is superior to a bird?” “That is as it may be. We do not waste our intellects in generalising, but take man or bird as we find him.--I think it is now my turn to ask you a question!” “You have the best of rights,” I replied, “in the fact that you CAN do so!”