'Chekhov Saved Me But Also Ruined Me'

Recently I woke from a dream adapted from Nostromo and directed by Joseph Conrad. Something about Martin Decoud in the lifeboat, weighted down with silver ingots. The dream, typically, was fragmentary and out of focus. This is only the second time I can remember having a dream lifted from a work of fiction. The other involved Leopold Bloom embracing Rudy, his dead infant son. Do I find profound significance in these nighttime theatricals? That both involve death? Not really. They tell me that fiction, like one’s "real" life, is raw material for the subconscious, and perhaps that I know these novels nearly as well as my own life. There’s a touch of pride in knowing Conrad and Joyce are among the greatest writers, longtime favorites, and that Joyce Carol Oates hasn’t infected my subconscious. In her latest post at The Little White Attic, “My Personal Library,” Di Nguyen examines the books she owns – a common practice among serious readers -- and writes: “Sometimes I try to find some…