L. L.—Perfectly.
L. L.—Do you remember a sitting at home when you told me you had a lot to tell me?
Yes. What he principally wanted to say was about the place he is in. He could not spell it all out—too laborious. He felt rather upset at first. You do not feel so real as people do where he is, and walls appear transparent to him now. The great thing that made him reconciled to his new surroundings was—that things appear so solid and substantial. The first idea upon waking up was, I suppose, of what they call 'passing over.' It was only for a second or two, as you count time, [that it seemed a] shadowy vague place, everything vapoury and vague. He had that feeling about it.
The first person to meet him was Grandfather.
(This was said very carefully, as if trying to get it right with difficulty.)
And others then, some of whom he had only heard about. They all appeared to be so solid, that he could scarcely believe that he had passed over.
He lives in a house—a house built of bricks—and there are trees and flowers, and the ground is solid. And if you kneel down in the mud, apparently you get your clothes soiled. The thing I don't understand yet is that the night doesn't follow the day here, as it did on the earth plane. It seems to get dark sometimes, when he would like it to be dark, but the time in between light and dark is not always the same. I don't know if you think all this is a bore.
(I was here thinking whether my pencils would last out; I had two, and was starting on the second one.)
What I am worrying round about is, how it's made, of what it is composed. I have not found out yet, but I've got a theory. It is not an original idea of my own; I was helped to it by words let drop here and there.
People who think everything is created by thought are wrong. I thought that for a little time, that one's thoughts formed the buildings and the flowers and trees and solid ground; but there is more than that.