Someone narrated my dream last night. It was not me.
I might have suspected Morgan Freeman or James Earl Jones, the prefect narrators. But it was not.
The narrator, instead, was from a book I am reading by Andrei Bely, a Russian fellow who wrote during the last years of the Czars. The book is “Petersburg.”
The narrator is a personable and rather omniscient fellow. He is inviting and though rather formal at times but not without a bit of the wink-wink-look-what-we-know-that-those-within-the-story-do-not sort of charm.
Anyway, he has a voice. I can hear him telling the story to me. The voice is not me. I can’t really explain the voice in my head but it’s not like someone with some fake Russian accent. But it is distinct and fully embodied with the style of the Bey’s narration.
I don’t recall particularly what the dream was about. Just that it was the narrator of “Petersburg.” Of that there can be little doubt.
I felt the voice so strongly and so clearly that I abruptly woke up and thought “Holy shit, this book is affecting me way too much.”
It was like a hallucifuckination. It was weird. I was kind of freaked out.
But then I though, I need to read more books like this. How often do you get to experience that? I don’t know. Maybe a lot. Maybe you’re all onto this. Maybe I’ve been missing out on something. Not part of the club.
Let’s see. “Petersburg” is a symbolist novel. Hmm, maybe the Symbolists were on to something. Perhaps writing hypnotic, trance inducing narration they were.
I need to learn to write like this. Just send people into hallucitory spells. I mean without having to lace the pages with acid, of course.
In honor of my weird dream.