A
number of horror and fantasy authors have made a regular practice to transmute
their dreams and nightmares into compelling narratives or poetry. H.P. Lovecraft is certainly an example, and
there are probably many others. In his
two volume biography of the author, S.T. Joshi notes that Lovecraft’s well
known story The Statement of Randolph
Carter (1920), one of his earliest works, was based on a nightmare, as was
his interesting prose poem, Nyarlathotep
(1920), among several other works. Lovecraft kept a “commonplace book” in which
he jotted down dreams for later use. He
also shared dream material with some of his collaborators when he worked on
joint efforts.
An
expression of what might have been Lovecraft’s psychology of dreams can be
found in the opening paragraph of Beyond
the Wall of Sleep (1919), one of his earlier stories:
“Whilst
the greater number of our nocturnal visions are perhaps no more than faint and
fantastic reflections of our waking experiences—Freud to the contrary with his
puerile symbolism—there are still a certain remainder whose immundane and
ethereal character permits of no ordinary interpretation, and whose vaguely
exciting and disquieting effect suggests possible minute glimpses into a sphere
of mental existence no less important than physical life, yet separated from that
life by an all but impassible barrier…Sometimes I believe that this less
material life is our truer life, and that our vain presence on the terraqueous
globe is itself the secondary or merely virtual phenomenon.”
In Hypnos (1923) Lovecraft’s psychology of
dreams became more of an ecstatic and terrifying theology. The narrator describes drug induced
explorations of the dream world—
“—of
that vaster and more appalling universe of dim entity and consciousness which
lies deeper than matter, time, and space, and whose existence we suspect only
in certain forms of sleep—those rare dreams beyond dreams which come never to
common men, and but once or twice in the lifetime of imaginative men. The cosmos of our waking knowledge, born from
such an universe as a bubble is born from the pipe of a jester, touches it only
as such a bubble may touch its sardonic source when sucked back by the jester’s
whim.”
My
interest in dreams goes back to a couple of books I read back in the
1970s. Celia Green wrote a fascinating
study of dreams in which the individual becomes aware that they are dreaming—a
phenomena closely related to “out-of-body experiences.” Green’s 1968 book was called Lucid Dreams. (Green and her colleague Charles McCreery later
elaborated this work to produce what was essentially a “how-to” manual called Lucid Dreaming: The Paradox of Consciousness
During Sleep in 1994.)
Another
important book at the time was Ann Faraday’s The Dream Game (1974). Faraday, who was trained in Freudian and
Jungian analysis as well as Gestalt psychotherapy, wrote a couple of popular
books at the height of the New Age Movement. She encouraged readers to keep dream journals
and use the recorded material for personal growth as well as every day problem-solving. Both Faraday and Green advocated using dream
recall and lucid dreaming to transform nightmares into therapeutic and creative
experiences.
While
these books are somewhat dated now, both of these experts on dream psychology are
well worth reading. (I am still grateful
to the tenth grade English teacher who lent me her copy of Faraday’s book,
which led to a lifelong interest in the subject.)
Out of
curiosity, I informally surveyed a number of aspiring authors recently about
their uses of dream material. Not all of
them were horror, science fiction or fantasy writers. I asked them whether they felt that using
dreams as source material for their work was still a useful practice, and
whether there were any special challenges to creating fiction using
dreams. Thirteen people responded, some
more than once to contribute additional information.
Unlike
Lovecraft, very few of the respondents believed that an entire dream could be
transformed into a coherent story, although one author indicated that she had
used dreams in their entirety for the creation of poetry. Another thought that perhaps “one in a
hundred” dreams was long enough and detailed enough to use as the basis for an
entire story. It may be that Lovecraft
had especially vivid or memorable dreams, or had trained himself to recall them
in more detail. Most of the respondents
acknowledged considerable difficulty in remembering their dreams. (I have found that the dream recall methods
described in the books by Ann Faraday and Celia Green are quite effective if
used consistently.)
Over
half of the writers surveyed reported that they had used dream material more
generally to stimulate ideas for writing or as a starting point for some
creative project. A few identified some
specific applications of dream imagery:
1.
Because
our dream persona is often different from how we see ourselves during the day,
dreams may provide an opportunity to take another character’s perspective.
2.
Given
the variable settings and activities that comprise the alternate universe of dreams,
there is opportunity for writers to have experiences not otherwise possible in
their waking lives.
3.
Dream
imagery, insofar as it is the residue of nocturnal problem-solving, may provide
solutions to struggles a writer is having with plot, direction and theme.
The
intensely introverted Lovecraft made effective use of the dreams and nightmares
he recorded in his “commonplace book”. Some
of his shorter pieces appear to have been minimally altered from the source
material—for example, his prose poems and the unusual sonnets that comprise his
Fungi from Yuggoth. But even his better known works contain the dark,
amorphous, shape-shifting creepy coherence of a nightmare. A contemporary author who comes close to this
effect is Thomas Ligotti. See his
marvelous The Shadow at the Bottom of the
World (2005), and My Work is Not Yet
Done (2002).
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