fifteen hours of “free labor” as their employés were after six or eight hours of routine work allowing them very little initiative and independence of action.

Edison works eighteen hours a day and only “rests” through sleep some four hours out of the twenty four. I wager that if he were put at work in his own plant, under the direction of a foreman, performing regular, monotonous tasks, he would break down under the strain of such long hours and would have to “rest” twice as much as he does now. His work satisfies him, and every new detail he perfects, every novelty he initiates, vouchsafes him a powerful ego gratification.

Napoleon, too, could perform incredible feats of muscular activity and endurance after which four hours’ sleep were sufficient to rest him. His life was for many years a continuous round of ego gratifications, won at the cost of great exertions, it is true, but proclaiming to him and the world his almost unrestricted power and luck.

One is forced to the conclusion that a desire for rest is a desire, not for decreased activity but for increased activity.

I shall make this point clear through a simile. The manufacturer who “attends to business” must, in order to succeed, “concentrate” on a few subjects and exclude all others from his mind. He may for a few hours think of nothing but, let us say, a certain grade of woollens, certain machinery, a certain customer and perhaps a certain engineer and some financial problem connected with those four thoughts. He must therefore exclude from his mind at the time, thoughts of playing golf, buying new clothes, going to the theatre, renting an apartment, repairing his motor car, thoughts of meals, women, card playing, and many other thoughts which are clamouring for admission to consciousness because they all represent human cravings.

In his relaxed moments he will let all those other thoughts come to the surface. Which means that, what tired him, was the fact that he had to keep all those subjects down and allow only the other four to rise to consciousness.

Mental rest consists in admitting ideas pell mell into consciousness without exercising any censorship on them. It consists in passing from a reduced but directed mental activity to an increased but undirected mental activity.

In other words, rest is the free, normal, unimpeded functioning of the vagotonic nerves which upbuild the body and assure the continuance of the race. Ego and sex activities, mental and physical, are constantly struggling for admission to consciousness and for their gratification. They are held down, however, by the sympathetic nerves which play the part of a safety device, moderating or inhibiting the vagotonic activities whenever the latter might endanger the personality.

Physical and mental rest, however, being easily attained through a change of activities, cannot be entirely synonymous with sleep. Sleep takes place mainly while we are resting, although we know of cases when sleep sets in regardless of continued muscular activity, but sleep is not exactly “rest.” We do not sleep because we need rest. In many cases we can or could rest very well, although in such cases sleep is an impossibility.

What then induces sleep? The certainty that we can for a time relax our watch on our environment; a feeling of perfect safety; the conscious or unconscious knowledge that no danger threatens us.

Our receptive contact with reality is attained through the action of our vagotonic nerves which, as stated before, upbuild the body and assure the continuance of the race. Our defensive contact, on the other hand is attained through our sympathetic nerves which interrupt all the activities which are not necessary for fight or flight. As long as some stimulus is interpreted by those nerves as indicating a possible danger, we cannot sleep, although we may, under the influence of terrifying fear, fall into unconsciousness.

A light flashed on our closed lids at night causes us to wake up because sympathetic activities bid us to prepare for an emergency. A light burning evenly in our bedroom and not too bright to cause physical pain, will, on the other hand, allow us to sleep soundly because the constant character of the stimulus does not cause us to expect any danger therefrom.

A mouse rustling a bit of paper will wake us up, but trains passing in front of our window at regular intervals, or the constant rumble of a neighbouring power house will not prove a disturbance as soon as our nerves have learnt to interpret those stimuli as harmless.

Conversation with a dull, witless person, unlikely to best us in debate, puts us to sleep. Argument with keen, sharp-minded people, who keep us on the defensive, may lead to sleeplessness for the rest of the night. A dull book in which nothing happens or is expected to happen, acts as a soporific; we cannot close our eyes before we know the dénouement of a thrilling piece of fiction.

In other words, monotony transforms itself into a symbol of safety. Safety does not require the muscular tension, the blood stream speed which the organism needs in order to cope with possible emergencies. We “let go” and no longer pay any close attention to our environment. We sleep.

CHAPTER III: THE FLIGHT FROM REALITY

Monotony symbolizing safety enables us to withdraw our attention from our environment, from a reality which we no longer fear, but it does not compel us to do so. There is in sleep a certain amount of compulsion which is not accounted for by the mere monotony of environmental stimuli. We go to sleep willingly but not entirely of our own free will. We yield to sleep.

A consideration of abnormal sleep states will help us considerably in determining the actual cause of sleep.

Abnormal states always throw a flood of light on normal states of which they are only an exaggerated variety. The neurosis is the best magnifying glass through which to watch normal life, provided of course that we afterward reduce our observations to the proper scale.

The average person sleeps from six to ten hours out of the twenty four, some time between eight at night and ten in the morning. In abnormal cases, on the other hand, we see the duration of sleep considerably prolonged and the onset of sleepiness appearing at times when complete wakefulness is usually the rule.

The circumstances surrounding those abnormal cases are never pleasant. We never hear of any one falling asleep while witnessing a very amusing play, while in the company of a very interesting person or while busy with some extremely attractive occupation.

One incident from Napoleon’s biography will make my meaning clear. During his days of glory Napoleon never slept more than four or five hours out of the twenty four. His physical and intellectual activities were prodigious. He would, at times, ride on horseback for ten hours at a stretch, then hold conferences with his staff until late into the night, then dictate innumerable letters. Yet he did not feel tired or sleepy and a few hours of sleep were sufficient to “relieve his fatigue.”

On the other hand, let us remember what happened after the battle of Aspern, the first he lost after a series of seventeen victories: He fell asleep after a long, unsuccessful struggle with drowsiness and for thirty-six hours could not be aroused.

His biographers also mention that when his life dream was shattered at Waterloo and he was sent into exile on a remote island, he began to sleep as many hours