Tag Archives: dreams

The Ted Dreams: Fay Weldon

“My life seems full of husbands who suggest I ‘see someone’, when all that happens is I see something others don’t.”

Fay Weldon’s novella, The Ted Dreams begins with an unforgettable sentence: “It was the night before Christmas, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring… except a clot of blood, creeping up from Ted’s leg to his brain, to kill him as he slept…”

the ted dreams.jpg

Phyllis was married, rather miserably, to art gallery owner Ted for twenty years when he died, unexpectedly, in bed one night. When Fay Weldon’s wonderfully funny book, The Ted Dreams opens, Phyllis is remarried to Robbie, an American neuro-pharma-scientist after an indecent interval of just ten months of widowhood. Phyllis was warned by her grief therapist not to “embark on a relationship,” but arguing that “a good man is hard to find” and that “they don’t just hang about on trees like ripe fruit waiting to be plucked,” Phyllis plunges ahead into matrimony once again. Phyllis is now happily married to Robbie, getting plenty of sex, and marriage to Ted with its many problems is buried in the past. Of course, it’s just possible that Phyllis’s bovine contentment could be explained by the pills she’s given by Robbie to fix those “hormonal issues.”And since Robbie has a top-secret job at Portal Inc. where he works on psychotropic drugs, he’s in a perfect position to provide her with all the experimental mood-altering drugs needed to keep her happy and content.

Phyllis remembers that Ted used to complain about her moods: ” ‘I know it’s your hormones’ was all Ted would say, thus maddening me the more. ‘ I just sit it out.’ ”  But Robbie takes his work home. “One little pink pill night and morning,” and Phyllis is  “generally benign and tranquil.”

But since this is a Fay Weldon novel, fans know that domestic bliss is a mere façade, and behind Phyllis and Robbie’s seeming domestic bliss lie some ugly dark truths. The first crack in Phyllis’s happiness is a result of all the Ted dreams she has. In Phyllis’s dreams,  Ted “grown no older, just a bit sadder and recently more resentful” appears to be stuck in a dark wood, and in the latest dream she sees him brushing off mud from a shoe. What a nasty shock, then, when Phyllis wakes up and discovers a lump of mud next to the bed. Can it be that Ted still exists somewhere in another dimension? Is there ‘life’ after death? Why is Robbie so fascinated by Phyllis’s dreams of Ted? Is Ted trying to break through to the other side, and if so what are the implications for Phyllis and Robbie?

As Fay Weldon’s wickedly funny plot unfolds, Phyllis begins to ask questions about her marriage to Robbie, and she talks to the poisonous Cynara who may or may not have had an affair with her business partner Ted and who was, according to Robbie, “just a bed buddy.” Can it be just coincidence that the marvelously bitchy Cynara had sex with both Ted and Robbie? The ‘visits’ from Ted turn out to be the most recent events in Phyllis’s life that defy rational scientific explanation. She’s given to visitations from ‘beyond,’ episodes of telepathy, and is known to be a ‘sensitive’ with telekinetic powers.

With ever growing paranoia, Phyllis begins to question the fabric of her entire existence: what exactly was her neighbour’s involvement in her husband’s death, is Phyllis the subject of a sinister experiment, and is Robbie’s sperm laced with psychotropic drugs designed to narcotize? With alarming speed Phyllis’s ‘perfect’ new married life begins to unravel, but then after we meet her creepy identical twin daughters (who could have stepped out of The Shining,) Martha and Maude, we realize how weird her life really is:

their bickerings often end (and they do bicker) just because one of them is using the other’s lines and they get confused.

Fay Weldon is in top form here with The Ted Dreams, and she proves she is as relevant as ever with this tale of spying and psychotropic drugs.  I loved this book for its subversive humour and for its tongue in cheek look at conspiracy theories, life extension and the ‘Great Beyond.’

That’s right, I felt like saying: when in doubt, fucking blame the woman.

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The Sleep Room by F.R. Tallis

“I did not recognize the sound at first. It arrived as nothing more than a subtle incursion: something seeping between the accumulated layers of silence.”

One of the benefits of experience is that we grow to know what we like, so while after reading some plot outlines, I tend to steer away from certain books, I am attracted to others. The Sleep Room had an unappealing cover, but the storyline checked a lot of boxes for me:

  • written by a psychologist
  • set in a mental hospital/asylum
  • treatment/therapy for mental problems
  • anything to do with sleep and dreams

British author F.R. Tallis was new to me, and in spite of the fact that the book had its attractions, I approached it still with some doubts because, after all, you never know just how well written a book will be until you take that chance and open it.

The sleep roomThe Sleep Room is outstanding. Suspenseful, compelling, and atmospheric, this has to be the creepiest book I’ve read in a long time, but far more than that, this is also a very intelligent story which questions the validity of medicating mental problems, which is, as it turns out, a preferred method in this tale, over the snidely dismissed ‘talking cure’ of Freudian therapists.

It’s 1955, and the novel opens with James Richardson, a young psychiatrist working in London, interviewing for a job with Dr. Hugh Maitland. To Richardson, Maitland is a hero of sorts–an eminent psychiatrist regularly published and the head of “psychological medicine at Saint Thomas’s.” Richardson is particularly interested in sleep studies, so he leaps at Maitland’s offer of a job at Wyldehope, a remote hospital located in Suffolk for ‘special’ cases. This sounds like a dream job: 24 beds “two wards and a narcosis room,” supported by nine nurses, a caretaker and his wife. In addition, Maitland in vigorously opposed to Freudian methods:

Freudian techniques are hopelessly ineffective. All that talk. All those wasted hours. Three hundred milligrams of Chlormazine is worth months of analysis! Don’t you agree? Dreams, the  unconscious, primitive urges! Psychiatry is a branch of medicine, not philosophy. Mental illness  arises in the brain, a physical organ, and must be treated accordingly.

Maitland’s anti-Freudian stance matches Richardson’s beliefs, so he takes the job, agreeing with everything Maitland says, thinking that this will be the first step in a brilliant career. Apart from occasional relief from local doctors, Richardson will be the only doctor on staff–a situation Richardson initially questions, but then he’s reassured by Maitland, who’s a rather domineering character, and after all a senior doctor, that all of the treatments are handled expertly by the nurses, and that the work load will not be unmanageable. While the patients are divided into male and female wards, Maitland is obsessed with the patients in The Sleep Room:

I will always remember entering the sleep room for the very first time: descending the stairs that led to the basement, Maitland at my side, immaculately dressed, talking energetically, cutting the air with his hands, the door opening and stepping across the threshold that seemed not merely physical, but psychological. The nurse, seated at her station–a solitary desk lamp creating a well-defined pool of light in the darkness–the sound of the quivering EEG pens and, of course, the six occupied beds. All women–in white gowns–fast asleep: one of them with wires erupting from her scalp like a tribal headdress.

The six patients are undergoing Narcosis (deep sleep) treatment with the goal of keeping the patients asleep for about 21 hours a day. Each patient is woken up–but perhaps it’s more accurate to say each patient is ‘disturbed’ every 6 hours and taken to the toilet, washed, fed, and given more drugs. Enemas are administered in case of “falling bowel activity.” One of the arguments for Narcosis is that patients could be given more ECT (Electroshock) therapy when they are asleep, and Maitland’s patients receive weekly ECTs with the controls set “at their uppermost limits.” Maitland sees little difference between the patients, is disinterested in the details of how they became damaged people, and describes them collectively as schizophrenic.

“Of course,” Maitland continued, “the great advantage of administering ECT while patients are asleep, is that they experience no anxiety–which means one can prescribe longer and more intensive courses.”

Maitland returns to London leaving Richardson in charge. For the most part, the patient care–especially for those in the sleep room–is on auto pilot with Richardson monitoring the sleeping patients and their bodily functions.  The patients who are not undergoing narcosis are also bombarded with medication, and any failure to “respond” leads to a doubling of medication, so even those not asleep are like zombies. Richardson is naturally curious about the patients and the circumstances that brought them to Wyldehope, but this is not a subject up for discussion, and “case histories were entirely irrelevant.” It’s not so much that it’s a secret as much as it simply doesn’t matter, but then neither does a “cure” seem to be part of the agenda. In fact, as time goes on, Richardson, who is plagued by headaches and disturbing dreams, begins to suspect that Maitland’s goal is to see how long people can be kept in this vegetative state.

Richardson isn’t exactly comfortable with his duties, but his doubts and questions are answered or dismissed so smoothly by Maitland, that he bows to his authority and reputation. However, once Maitland is gone from Wyldehope, Richardson is left in charge, and some bizarre things begin to occur. He feels a presence in his isolated room, items disappear, a patient complains that his bed moves back and forth making sleep impossible, and a nurse is terrified to stay in the Sleep Room alone at night. Since the patient population is delusional, perhaps some of this can be explained away. Richardson’s discomfort grows even as he attempts to quell his growing alarm, and he is forced to acknowledge “the idea of the dead returning to annoy the living.” Yet as a doctor, he knows all too well that if he begins to acknowledge any supernatural presence he places his professional standing in jeopardy.

A psychiatrist cannot admit to seeing things that cannot be explained. As soon as he does so, he crosses the line that separates himself from his patients.

As events spiral out of control, Richardson wonders what happened to his predecessor. The atmosphere at Wyldehope, a rambling mansion, glows darkly with the sense of impending doom–especially so when Richardson, continually observing those in the Sleep Room, discovers that the sleepers are dreaming in synchronicity.  

The Sleep Room is an entertaining, suspenseful page turner which questions the poisonous structure of professional hierarchy, the prevalent attitudes towards female sexuality, and the power of dreams.  This well-crafted book, told through Richardson’s eyes, moves smoothly from skepticism and the solidity of scientific facts to sheer terror of the unknown and the unexplainable. There are some real names here, and the treatments, as outlandish and barbaric as they seem to the modern reader, were the MO of the day, and the character of Maitland appears to share some basic commonalities with Dr. William Sargent. We may finish the book and reassure ourselves that mental patients in the western world fare better these days, but an uneasy feeling remains that pills have become a replacement for therapy. Author F. R. Tallis, a psychologist, certainly seems to know how to push those reader buttons, and the narrative moves along very cleverly by feeding with hints such as “it is ironic–given what happened next” which left this reader eager to continue and very annoyed by any interruptions.  Some of the issues raised by the plot are left unanswered, but it’s easy to connect the dots and come to one’s own conclusions. The final chapter overworked the book’s premise, but in spite of that minor flaw, this is a helluva creepy read.

Review copy

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The Killer is Dying by James Sallis

American crime author James Sallis is slated to cull a new slew of fans thanks to the upcoming release of the film, Drive , based on a novel of the same name. Sallis is best known for his Lew Griffin series novels, but Sallis’s latest,  The Killer is Dying is a stand-alone novel. The story is set in Phoenix, Arizona and focuses on three seemingly very different characters: Christian, a freelance contract killer, Sayles a middle-aged, depressed Phoenix detective, and Jimmie Kostof, a teenager who’s been abandoned by his parents. Ultimately A Killer is Dying is not about the solution of a crime, but the unsolved mysteries of life and the abyss of loneliness, death and despair we all face.

Christian, who advertises his services by placing and responding to ads in various known mercenary magazines, is in Phoenix to kill John Rankin, a pedestrian character who seems unlikely to offend anyone. Christian finds himself wondering why a man like  Rankin ends up at the wrong end of paid hit:

How this man could possibly be of such concern as to bring someone to engage his services, Christian can’t imagine–a nondescript office-dweller at a nondescript accounting firm in a featureless city where everything is dun-colored.

None of that is any concern of his. Interesting though that he thinks it.

Christian stalks his prey in order to stage the hit, but someone else gets there first. But there’s a problem; Rankin isn’t dead. He’s only wounded, and with cops sniffing around the crime, Christian should move on but he doesn’t.  To complicate matters, Christian, a papertrail “ghost”  who has left no traceable evidence of his existence on the planet, is dying, and he knows he has very little time left. So why spend what’s left on the Rankin hit? Is he motivated by professional pride, curiosity, a desire to finish what he started, or is there something deeper going on? 

Sayles and his partner, Graves begin investigating the shooting, and in another story thread, Jimmie, a teen abandoned by both of his parents, struggles to survive by trading items over the internet in order to raise a little cash. Jimmie is increasingly drawn to a blog site to read the mysterious comments of someone called Traveler. Jimmie has begun to experience intense and violent dreams–clips from the life of the hired contract killer, Christian:

Jimmie tried to remember if he had ever dreamed as someone else. Others in dreams changed, sure, the walk-ons, the companions, but weren’t people always themselves in their dreams?

We see clips from Christian’s earlier life, a strangely detached childhood and a violent stint in prison. Christian recalls some of the hits he made and the mysteries of the lives he brutally took. Similarly, Sayles recalls some of the crimes he’s covered in his career, the bodies of victims whose lives are violently interrupted and extinguished:

What you wound up remembering, what kept coming back to you, were not the whacked-out, bizarre crimes, the hatchet murders, the double homicides, bunco and bank jobs, but simple things. The look in a father’s eyes when you told him that his son had been killed while buying a Pepsi at the AM/PM on the corner. The trumpet case that had sprung open when its owner got shot in a drive-by, and you stood there noticing the way the bell of the horn was crumpled in on itself. The half-finished castle of building blocks in an abused child’s room. The suicide letter of words and phrases cut and pasted from favorite books, a crazy quilt of fonts and sizes, the books themselves put back in their places on the shelves.

These three characters, the contract killer, the cop and the abandoned teen,  physically connect in only the vaguest ways–one character will enter the screen as another leaves, or perhaps one character will pass another with just the barest acknowledgment, and yet the three men–all at different phases of their lives are inexplicably intertwined. Just as Jimmie has Christian’s dreams, there’s the idea of parallel lives crisscrossing through space with occasional moments that overlap. These metaphysical aspects of the novel (the shared dreams, collective unconscious, the comments by Traveler) serve to deepen the book’s sense of mystery and connection between the characters.

The novel goes back and forth between its three main characters. Jimmie struggles with loneliness, Christian digs into the truth behind the Rankin shooting, and Sayles, whose bleak home life includes a dying wife, can’t get the Rankin shooting out of his head. Perhaps Sayles’ fascination with the Rankin case is a much-needed distraction from his personal life, or perhaps he connects with Christian in ways he doesn’t understand.

A great deal of the novel maintains a dreamlike quality when describing the passage of everyday life:

He watched a bus disgorge its load of the last night folk heading home and replace them with those just beginning their day, wondering how many of them might be thinking about their lives , where they’d wound up, where they’d began, the curves and crooks and bland mystery of it all, all these Jonahs.

And again:

A bus comes by, one of those segmented doubles that looks like a worm. Space for, what, a hundred people within? With maybe a dozen heads afloat in the windows. Its sides bear banner ads for action movies and portraits of  local newscasters with too many teeth. He watches the bus work its cautious way around a corner.

Beautifully written, the novel maintains an almost dream-like pacing, and yet the novel itself is tightly-written–racking in at just 232 pages.  Not a word seems to be wasted, and although the book covers some emotionally devastating territory, Sallis’s tale is restrained and eloquent, and yet at the same time strangely disturbing.

Review copy courtesy of publisher.

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