'Ever since Hilde[,] Lionel had remained a self-conscious sleeper, aware of many different grades of sleep. In the mornings, he often looked back with the self-critical distance-probing eye of a golfer after driving. Because life - even the descent of the stairs to breakfast - was an act of faith powered by sleep. To sleep badly was to wake up not believing. The libido hung back unsatisfied by the mysterious cookhouse door of the unconscious. Sometimes quite clearly the terrible skinny female hand of an unidentifiable dream could be seen withholding the day's ration...'
from Marching with April by Hugo Charteris (Chapter 4)
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