I dreamt that I went to a literary event of some kind. I did not know what to expect, but I was a little annoyed with myself for going there at all. I remember entering into a large room with dim lights. To my surprise, I was late. Everyone was sitting around a huge wooden table. There was a free chair close to the door, and I took it as quietly as I could. A man sitting across the table from me was talking. Although his face struck me as lacking strength, he spoke well. He first talked about his writing, but then he switched to the opinion of his work that he got from a body of illustrious literati. “Single-voice narrative,” he said pointedly. I remember getting angry immediately. Damned literati! Who cares about the number of voices? Who cares if a writer takes the voice of an animal or a piece of furniture? These are but miserable tricks of the trade. The only important thing is projecting far and wide that one voice that one actually has. As all this was going through my mind, I was ever more eager to jump in. The only thing that was stopping me was that I was not exactly sure what was going on. Was this a performance of some kind? Was the whole thing staged? Unsure of what to do, I woke up before I intervened.