Oliver Stone records his own night dreams in this autobiographical novel written during separate periods of his life: as a child - a relatively younger 19 yr old Yale dropout, and then 30 years later after rediscovering the old manuscripts in a shoebox.
This debut has its moments: the horrifying scenes of his experience in Vietnam, ubiquitous love-hate relationship with his parents, raving madly of his love, lust and hatred, and his morbid fantasies and flirtations with death.
But it's much of an acquired taste. I would think that perhaps this book should be read like its title, having such lucidity and clarity in its flashbacks, deliriously dreamlike in narration, incoherent and repetitive. Yet everything seems so significant, so strong, so powerful, and so hideously ugly, that you'd be very much spelled into clawing your own scarred face away in the cursed mirror, spewing profanities and froth off your lips as the insanity of the steam-boiler memory drowns you in its nightmares.
Intense, verbose, and so horrifying real, this book captivated me throughout the procrastination of thesis-writing, although I'd admit that I could do with a couple of uppers after an entire chapter of him raving about death - I do feel like jumping off a ship myself right now.
But as well as they come by, I couldn't have written my dreams this well myself, nor shall I ever put myself into the shuddering task of ever doing so, and for this, if I ever wore them, I'll have my hats off for Oliver's attempt. graceshu # 8:16 AM