Mr. Thompson

I found The Unconsoled to be a fine novel, and certainly successful in terms of capturing "the language of dreams." Ishiguro's sense of the intersections between dream narratives and
"regular" narratives really shines through along with his unrelentingly British prose style. When it came to narrative structure, the novel reminded me of Poe: a strangely-woven tale with no resolution. Stylistically--that is, in terms of language--it was completely and utterly English...maybe DH Lawrence-esque. Since I became used to the dreamy style of the storytelling rather quickly, I found it to be, believe it or not, an easy read. It flowed well, and now I am definitely interested in Ishiguro's work.

I dislike research but I love the writing process. That being said, I am often overwhelmed by the amount of information (or, on the contrary, underwhelmed by the lack thereof) that I often obtain during the research phase. I find that, too often, research turns into what I am spontaneously calling the "knowledge game": a race against who knows what and who has written what. Sometimes I think it's all bullshit, too. Who really cares what anyone thinks? But then I realize that, obscurantists and formalist critics aside, there are people out there who have brilliant things to say. I love reading art critiques by those who are artists themselves, such as EM Forster, DH Lawrence, and Richard Hugo. There is a beauty to their language, and they don't feel the need to constantly qualify themselves with "information"; they know what they know. I say "information" because, sooner or later, any particular field becomes so bogged down with peoples' opinions that it is difficult to really know anything. I blame fans of lit crit and continental philosophy for this. Basically, I write because I love writing and the beauty of language. I write to discover beauty, not to explain it.

I ran into a movie version of Ishiguro's The Remains of the Day. It stars Anthony Hopkins, who can read a phone book and sound great. Anyway, I was struck by how thematically different the two stories--The Remains of the Day and The Unconsoled--seemed to be. Granted, I have not read The Remains..., but I'm sure the movie captured the essence of its dry Britishness. It seemed at odds with the, shall I say, "wet" Britishness of The Unconsoled. In terms of linearity, both stories are not straight, but they seem so different from each other; Ishiguro seems interested in people but not in the sense of their static characters. Rather, he seems to loves to represent everyone as dynamic characters in time.

I am flying while following a car on a desert highway. I have a diagonal overhead view of the car, which is a red convertible with its top down. I try to see who is driving but his back is to me. I don't recall much sound. I fly to the front to get a view of the driver. I notice the steering wheel is on the "wrong" side, that is, the right or English side. I get a glimpse of the driver: it is Michael Myers from the Halloween movies. He drives casually with his arm draped out the window, his mask expressionless as always. I get very scared and wake up. I had this dream during a short nap.

Apparently I am a detective searching for a missing girl. I ask questions in a strange bar decorated to look like an aquarium of sorts. Nobody talks to me, and I recall feeling confused in the dream. The bartender keeps saying: "I'm gonna stay here." He talks to me as if he knows me, but I don't recognize him. My brother walks into the bar in his police uniform, but he doesn't speak to me, either. I leave the bar to look for this girl. I try to drive my car but it is difficult: I can't see the road well and I can barely reach the pedals. Also, whenever I approach a stop sign or a red light, the brakes don't work well, and I stop very late. I feel powerless.

Some war. My town is very dangerous and is roped off. I can't find anyone I know. Strange wooden shacks have been erected in parking lots. I try to find my house but always end up next to a bank. Odd clowns are in the streets, too. I can't see well sometimes, especially when I am forced to fight a man who wants something from me. My fists are slow and I am weak. Finally, I spot my brother. He crouches in a corner, in a sort of fetal position, with his head bowed. He says nothing but looks at me with blank eyes. Then I am in one of those rickety wooden shacks, where a killer is chasing me. I hide but the war rages on.

Recently I had a dream that I've had many times before. Well, actually, I've had similar ones. It involves me, of course, nearing the end of a semester in school, thinking I'm doing well, only to remember that I actually have another class on my schedule, a class which I have forgot to attend for the entire semester. Usually, in the dream, I then remember the first day of that particular class, and then remember how I haven't been there since. Then a strange sense of panic comes over me, and I know that I will fail that class. I also usually feel a sort of "left out" feeling, and also depression, since I wonder how I could have forgot to attend a class for the entire semester. Strange.

Has anyone ever died in their dreams? About a year ago I had a dream where I was shot...it was unclear, however, whether or not I actually died. The dream involved my family and I living in a trailer, waiting for our new house to be built. A large gang of men invaded the trailer park and shot everyone, including my family and then me. It was probably one of the most horrific dreams I've ever had. I was mad at myself for a while afterwards; I felt disgusted that I could even have the mental capabilities to imagine something such as that.

I'm disappointed: Christmas did not induce any dreams, or at least none that I can remember. Usually, though, even if you don't remember a dream, you still remember that you dreamt something. Christmas = no dreaming. That's sad.