Tom Kremer

1930 – 2017

Language of the Night

Ever since the beginning of civilisation, dreaming and remembering dreams have preoccupied man. Dreams belong to our unconscious universe but their tentacles reach upwards and permeate rational thinking.


Dreams and what
they mean

Dreams in stories, stories in dreams…

The tour of dream interpretation, undertaken by our hero, from the biblical Joseph, through the dream institute of Pergamon, Jerome in the desert, the Cordoba of Maimonides, Freud in Vienna, Jung on the shores of Lake Zurich and the latest academic disciplines, Tom Kremer's long historical pilgrimage ends in a monumental discovery.


He, alone, has not been the dreamer of the rich and spectacular variety of his own dreams. There was someone else, quite close to himself ever since birth, who knew almost everything about him, who was in charge of weaving the most amazing nightly episodes recalled in the morning. The dreams belonged to him, and not to him, but to both of them, all at the same time.


Tom Kremer recorded nine hundred and thirty one dreams faithfully over a memorable period of three years when his sanity was seriously in doubt. On rising, he sat down to write down the stories of the previous night. Sometimes there was more than one, at others there was none but he ensured that, over these three perilous years, no dream was left out, that nothing was discriminated for or against.

He shared their secrets with no one. In the process of disintegrating, the only question was how to survive.


Then he was made more or less whole again. How much he owed to dreaming, and the daily transcription of his dreams, is difficult to tell. His hunch is that the debt is too significant ever to be repaid.

Against the backdrop of semi-dark sky a flock of birds disappears into the distance. I am deep underwater in a sea inlet. On one side of the inlet a castle wall reaches right down to the shore. On the other side, the sharply sloping ground displays rocks with interspersed vegetation.

I am moving along in the water but not by swimming. A force behind propels me forward. I do not feel human; I do not seem to be inside my body. I am some kind of human submarine.

Loud music is blaring in my ear. Finding all this very strange, I question myself whether this is the state of being dead. In fact I am unsure whether I am dead or just about to die. Almost colliding with a moss covered rock, I wake up.

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