(It didn’t get that far, but maybe it will eventually, if I ever edge over some critical tipping point between “this is the part of my brain that is not filled with books” and “ALL IS BOOK HERE”…)
I suddenly remembered just now that I had a dream last night about reading a book by Jeff Vandermeer, whom I haven’t actually read yet. I don’t remember what the book was about anymore, but I remember it being fragmentary, illustrated, and mystifying. Dream-book, come back!
That further reminded me that about a month before I actually read K. J. Bishop’s The Etched City (my review), and was eagerly anticipating having the time to read it, I had a dream about reading it, a sketchy, dust-filled dream built around the one or two clear snippets I remembered about the book from Vega’s review of it (desert, outlaws, irreal city). When I actually read the book, I was only briefly disappointed that the city in it didn’t look anything like the one I dreamed about, since the actuality (“actuality”?) was just as satisfyingly mysterious, though a lot more humid. I’m still trying to figure out what was happening in the dreamed etched city, though.
Does this ever happen to anyone else?