once."

"This time he agrees with the majority of the authorities,"
announced the missionary with huge satisfaction. "The hill is

Golgotha, the Place of Skulls, or, as you please, so named because
it resembles a skull. Notice the resemblance. That is where they

crucified--" He broke off and turned to me. "Whom did they crucify
there, young scholar? Tell us what else you see."

Oh, I saw--my father reported that my eyes were bulging; but I shook
my head stubbornly and said:

"I ain't a-goin' to tell you because you're laughin' at me. I seen
lots an' lots of men killed there. They nailed 'em up, an' it took

a long time. I seen--but I ain't a-goin' to tell. I don't tell
lies. You ask dad an' ma if I tell lies. He'd whale the stuffin'

out of me if I did. Ask 'm."
And thereat not another word could the missionary get from me, even

though he baited me with more photographs that sent my head whirling
with a rush of memory-pictures and that urged and tickled my tongue

with spates of speech which I sullenly resisted and overcame.
"He will certainly make a good Bible scholar," the missionary told

father and mother after I had kissed them good-night and departed
for bed. "Or else, with that imagination, he'll become a successful

fiction-writer."
Which shows how prophecy can go agley. I sit here in Murderers'

Row, writing these lines in my last days, or, rather, in Darrell
Standing's last days ere they take him out and try to thrust him

into the dark at the end of a rope, and I smile to myself. I became
neither Bible scholar nor novelist. On the contrary, until they

buried me in the cells of silence for half a decade, I was
everything that the missionary forecasted not--an agricultural

expert, a professor of agronomy, a specialist in the science of the
elimination of waste motion, a master of farm efficiency, a precise

laboratory scientist where precision and adherence to microscopic
fact are absolute requirements.

And I sit here in the warm afternoon, in Murderers' Row, and cease
from the writing of my memoirs to listen to the soothing buzz of

flies in the drowsy air, and catch phrases of a low-voiced
conversation between Josephus Jackson, the negro murderer on my

right, and Bambeccio, the Italian murderer on my left, who are
discussing, through grated door to grated door, back and forth past

my grated door, the antiseptic virtues and excellences of chewing
tobacco for flesh wounds.

And in my suspended hand I hold my fountain pen, and as I remember
that other hands of me, in long gone ages, wielded ink-brush, and

quill, and stylus, I also find thought-space in time to wonder if
that missionary, when he was a little lad, ever trailed clouds of

glory and glimpsed the brightness of old star-roving days.
Well, back to solitary, after I had learned the code of knuckle-talk

and still found the hours of consciousness" target="_blank" title="n.意识；觉悟；知觉">consciousness too long to endure. By
self-hypnosis, which I began successfully to practise, I became able

to put my conscious mind to sleep and to awaken and loose my
subconscious mind. But the latter was an undisciplined and lawless

thing. It wandered through all nightmarish madness, without
coherence, without continuity of scene, event, or person.

My method of mechanical hypnosis was the soul of simplicity.
Sitting with folded legs on my straw-mattress, I gazed fixedly at a

fragment of bright straw which I had attached to the wall of my cell
near the door where the most light was. I gazed at the bright

point, with my eyes close to it, and tilted upward till they
strained to see. At the same time I relaxed all the will of me and

gave myself to the swaying dizziness that always eventually came to
me. And when I felt myself sway out of balance backward, I closed

my eyes and permitted myself to fall supine and unconscious on the
mattress.

And then, for half-an-hour, ten minutes, or as long as an hour or
so, I would wander erratically and foolishly through the stored

memories of my eternal recurrence on earth. But times and places
shifted too swiftly. I knew afterward, when I awoke, that I,

Darrell Standing, was the linking personality that connected all
bizarreness and grotesqueness. But that was all. I could never

live out completely one full experience, one point of consciousness" target="_blank" title="n.意识；觉悟；知觉">consciousness
in time and space. My dreams, if dreams they may be called, were

rhymeless and reasonless.
Thus, as a sample of my rovings: in a single interval of fifteen

minutes of subconsciousness" target="_blank" title="n.意识；觉悟；知觉">consciousness I have crawled and bellowed in the slime
of the primeval world and sat beside Haas--further and cleaved the

twentieth century air in a gas-driven monoplane. Awake, I
remembered that I, Darrell Standing, in the flesh, during the year

preceding my incarceration in San Quentin, had flown with Haas
further over the Pacific at Santa Monica. Awake, I did not remember

the crawling and the bellowing in the ancient slime. Nevertheless,
awake, I reasoned that somehow I had remembered that early adventure

in the slime, and that it was a verity of long-previous experience,
when I was not yet Darrell Standing but somebody else, or something

else that crawled and bellowed. One experience was merely more
remote than the other. Both experiences were equally real--or else

how did I remember them?
Oh, what a fluttering of luminous images and actions! In a few

short minutes of loosed subconsciousness" target="_blank" title="n.意识；觉悟；知觉">consciousness I have sat in the halls of
kings, above the salt and below the salt, been fool and jester, man-

at-arms, clerk and monk; and I have been ruler above all at the head
of the table--temporal power in my own sword arm, in the thickness

of my castle walls, and the numbers of my fighting men; spiritual
power likewise mine by token of the fact that cowled priests and fat

abbots sat beneath me and swigged my wine and swined my meat.
I have worn the iron collar of the serf about my neck in cold

climes; and I have loved princesses of royal houses in the tropic-
warmed and sun-scented night, where black slaves fanned the sultry

air with fans of peacock plumes, while from afar, across the palm
and fountains, drifted the roaring of lions and the cries of

jackals. I have crouched in chill desert places warming my hands at
fires builded of camel's dung; and I have lain in the meagre shade

of sun-parched sagebrush by dry water-holes and yearned dry-tongued
for water, while about me, dismembered and scattered in the alkali,

were the bones of men and beasts who had yearned and died.
I have been sea-cuny and bravo, scholar and recluse. I have pored

over hand-written pages of huge and musty tomes in the scholastic
quietude and twilight of cliff-perched monasteries, while beneath on

the lesser slopes, peasants still toiled beyond the end of day among
the vines and olives and drove in from pastures the blatting goats

and lowing kine; yes, and I have led shouting rabbles down the
wheel-worn, chariot-rutted paves of ancient and forgotten cities;

and, solemn-voiced and grave as death, I have enunciated the law,
stated the gravity of the infraction, and imposed the due death on

men, who, like Darrell Standing in Folsom Prison, had broken the
law.

Aloft, at giddy mastheads oscillating above the decks of ships, I
have gazed on sun-flashed water where coral-growths iridesced from

profounds of turquoise deeps, and conned the ships into the safety
of mirrored lagoons where the anchors rumbled down close to palm-

fronded beaches of sea-pounded coral rock; and I have striven on
forgotten battlefields of the elder days, when the sun went down on

slaughter that did not cease and that continued through the night-
hours with the stars shining down and with a cool night wind blowing

from distant peaks of snow that failed to chill the sweat of battle;
and again, I have been little Darrell Standing, bare-footed in the

dew-lush grass of spring on the Minnesota farm, chilblained when of
frosty mornings I fed the cattle in their breath-steaming stalls,

sobered to fear and awe of the splendour and terror of God when I
sat on Sundays under the rant and preachment of the New Jerusalem