“They say life is a dream, a precious poor dream at times,” says the Time Traveller towards the end of The Time Machine.
I’ve just finished summerising the novel on pages, now as I start to type it down… I’m thinking of Wells’ flight of fantasy. His view or speculations of future are ironical and not very happy at all. He is disappointed. Unhappy with the future he has just returned from.
His character of Time Traveller doesn’t mind if no one believes in his story of time travelling. Reactions do not matter to him. But he still wants the world to know what he does or he thinks or dreams of doing. He is keeping the world with him and is still detached from it.
He himself doubts if he dreamt of travelling through time or actually went through the whole journey. He realises that life may be a dream, a story, a piece of fiction, unreal… He leaves it at possibilities. He makes speculating his job and not defining.
What Wells is dealing with here can’t be divided into Black or White. It is Black, White, Grey, Red and many colours at the same time.
The entire thought has brought this picture in my mind. Van Gogh’s piece, Crows in a Wheat Field, is a remarkable combination of his imagination and the real landscape. Precisely what Wells does well with the words.