This was one of those novels where you finish reading, and have to sit in complete silence for a few minutes as you process the brilliance of the book; by far my favourite novel of the semester, and the perfect one to close it off with.

First, I loved how the various storylines were integrated into the novel so seamlessly, no matter how far in they appear; the manners in which they intersect are also so well executed. For instance, Melquesideque and Tukaiana’s appearance at the end of the novel brought their story full circle and was a welcome surprise, as I had sort of forgotten about them by this time. Moreover, I found the style of prose stunning; one of my favourite lines was, “Sharing a house with a cat is just an elegant kind of solitude” (149). Also, from Moira to Karinguiri, there was an array of different, albeit uniquely empowering, female characters, which is always a bonus.

I was initially drawn to this novel by the title; I have always been fascinated by dreams, and what they communicate to us. Daniel, Moira, and Hossi’s unorthodox interactions with other individual’s dreams, as well as their own, is such an interesting premise within an already beautiful narrative. I especially love and connect with the idea of time as “a dimension, just like length, or breadth, or height. […] [Time] doesn’t pass. It is” (171); I’ve always thought of our lives as playing out at once, no matter the year. Time as a linear construct has never made sense to me, so it was as if this book was whispering its agreement in my ear (eg. “I like the idea that you can remember somebody I haven’t yet become. I look at myself in your eyes, […] and I see who I’m going to be” [171]).

When Hossi passed, I was already emotional, so when the citizens banded together to overthrow the dictator following Hossi’s appearance in their dreams, I was beyond choked up (eg. “The people, far from retreating, were throwing themselves against the barriers” [258]). This, punctuated by Moira and Daniel’s happy ending and her pregnancy (eg. “She still dreams, she still creates depictions of her own dreams, and her work has lost none of its unsettling power. But since becoming pregnant, she’s found a new calm” [264]) left this narrative in the perfect place. Agualusa asks readers to suspend disbelief just enough to transport them into a fantastical tale, while also delivering a realistic story of bravery, love, and connection.

I noticed that the baobab tree is mentioned many times throughout the novel; this could be attributed to it simply being a part of the setting, but do you think it could represent something more? Does it symbolise anything?