Details

We search for meaning in details. For example, it's difficult to imagine a train station in the abstract, without specific features. The station here—a shadowy, grey, stone vault where oblique columns of light and warmth, indifferent accidents of nature, stream down onto somber travelers far below—is, for the thoughtful viewer, a personal space filled with telling detail: my parents hurry along on the cold station floor—in the 1950s, an era of grimness for me—and I, their sole child, an anxious toddler, brushing against the warm, coarse, familiar fabric of my father's suit, follow with my hand in his. Our trip, a reprieve from the protective confinement of my middle-class home, is a small adventure.

A dream consists of meaningful detail as well, which is essential for describing it. The physical world, our thoughts and associations, and our mood and emotions within the dream come alive in many specific details thoughtfully recorded.

This image of New York's Grand Central Station is from the mediabistro blog UnBeige. Buy the poster.

John Updike on Dreams

In his novels and short stories, John Updike often describes his characters' dreams. In "Grandparenting," Updike comments on the dreams of Richard Maple, who just visited his daughter and newborn granddaughter and who will spend the night alone.

"His room at the Best Inn was on the ground floor, its wall-to-wall shag carpeting laid over concrete poured right on grade. The walls seemed subterranean, breathing out a deep freeze, their surface cold to the touch. . . . The cold pressed in upon him from the walls like a force that wanted to compress his existence to nothing, that wanted to erase this temporary blot of heated, pumping blood. It's a lot to give up, Joan had said of the womb, and indeed the cosmic volume of lightless, warmthless space hostile to us is overwhelming. He felt, huddled up, like a homunculus frigidly burning at the far end of God's indifferently held telescope. He was a newly hatched grandfather, and the universe wanted to crush him, to make room for newcomers. He did fall asleep, a little, and his dreams, usually so rich in suppressed longing and forgotten knowledge, were wispy, as if starved by his body's effort to maintain body temperature."

A good characterization of dreams by Updike: "so rich in suppressed longing and forgotten knowledge."

Intruder

All my life I have been somewhat of a loner. I'm unmarried and have always lived alone. I often have dreams of someone invading my "space."

I come home to my apartment (larger than my actual apartment) one afternoon and find a young black man (in his 20's, conservative, middle class, amiable, outgoing) sitting on the floor before a large bookcase. He is casually looking at a small object in his hand—an unidentifiable item of my own belongings. I realize that he is here because he will be my new roommate and that my landlord has always had the option of placing another occupant in my apartment, although I had long ago forgotten that. I'm opposed to having anyone living with me, but I realize I'll have to begin thinking about how we will work this out and how I can approach this new relationship as diplomatically as possible. A small door in the back of the apartment leads to a suite of unused rooms. I remember this and realize I may be able to live in those rooms and have some privacy. Behind the door is a very narrow corridor with tiny rooms on each side. The stale air, dust, and sunlight have made the drab colors pale variations of the same light pastel. A door frame leads to each room, but there are no doors. An old iron stove sits on the faded carpet in one otherwise barren, cramped room. The opening to the room at my side is only a few inches wide—I can't possibly enter. With a dull, depressed feeling, I realize these rooms are hardly habitable, but I but decide they will do.

I welcome your comments about this dream.