Three Dreams

I began dreaming in

Karamazov in the

spring of ‘08. Those were

cloudy and wine-dark days.

Shades of brotherhood

defining, divining

and staining my

sheets with the

darkness and brightness of

my three minds.


The nights came

on like horses, black

with rage and fearing

nothing, neither devil nor

angel. I fed them of

Tolstoy, of

Gogol, of

Chekhov, of

Saint Augustine, of

Heidegger and Sartre, of

philosophies golden, beloved,

haggard, rusted, of

wherever the

horses dragged my

three minds. Thoughts that

crept from the

sea and

smeared the walls with

their slime. Thoughts that

pummeled me with

stones and fists. Thoughts that

rocked me in their arms,

to sleep, to

dream again.


And so I

slept on, riding

each one. Mind by

mind. Horse by

horse. Untamed by

religion or by

men, I

rode them all.


The dreams were

sleeping giants,

hideous and

kind and

brothers all. I have

remained silent until

now, fearful to

wake them.


I walked

alone at the

same time each

afternoon, turning and

learning the dreams,

awed by the

ragged sublime. Each

one destroyed and

built me again. I

was ruined and

elated, Camus’



After that

Siberian spring the

earth was never

green again, but

only Dostoevsky,

blinding and

harsh and

true as ice and

veiling my

three minds with

its blood-red



Awake at

last, still I

made sleep my

religion, desiring

only the truth, whether

purest white or

the color


East River, After a Long Absence