“These obvious absurdities and impossibilities with which your dream was overflowing . . . you accepted all at once, almost without the slightest surprise, at the very time when, on the other side, your reason was at its highest tension and showed extraordinary power, cunning, sagacity, and logic. And why, too, on waking and fully returning to reality, do you feel almost every time, and sometimes with extraordinary intensity, that you have left something unexplained behind with the dream, and at the same time you feel that interwoven with these absurdities some thought lies hiddden, and a thought that is real, something belonging to your actual life, something that exists and always existed in your heart. It’s as though something new, prophetic, that you were awaiting, has been told you in your dream.”
This passage from Dostoevsky’s The Idiot played on my mind during this week of fever and dreams (and Joanna Walsh’s fevered dream of a book).