title: Dreams at the End of the Night
author:  Ewald Murrer 
description: "Murrer's poetic vision is unarguably one of the most remarkable in all of contemporary Czech poetry" -- <i>Vladimir Novotny, Institute of Czech Literature</i><br /><br />. . . evocative language and narrative structure that actually makes you sit up. -- <i>The Prague Post, May 19, 1999</i><br /><br />Ewald Murrer has produced a book that perhaps seems at first to be a catalog of illustrations to Freud's The Interpretation of Dreams, but which ultimately, and primarily, "awaits a sign," i.e., searches for meaning. At the end of the 20th century he has portrayed a celebration of boredeom, the stifling of which by momentary ecstasy, or Ecstasy, is futile. The transformation of illusion into disillusion occurs at the moment when drugs (of any sort) cease to have any effect, and Murrer goes further than many of his contemporary unfortunates in admitting the consequence. His book is a venturesome pilgrimage whose end offers no answer. -- <i>Alena Blazejovska, Tvar, January, 1997</i><br /><br />Murrers poetic vision is unarguably one of the most remarkable in all of contemporary Czech poetry. -- <i>Vladimr Novotny, Institute of Czech Literature</i>
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  **STORY 1**  
   **Wake Me from this Dream**
  
    
  
   **A** **** pulsing, numbing pain ran from the deepest folds of Toshihiko’s
  brain into the tangled tendrils of his nervous system. On the back of his
  retinas, dull reds and blues pulsed and flashed, their faded hues like washed-
  out dollops of distempered paint. A strange sound filled his ears, like the
  grinding of unoiled gears.
  
  Toshihiko awoke.
  
  Fat beads of sweat clung to his forehead. They felt cold on his skin.
  
  Sitting up on his thin, single-layer futon, he quickly shook his head a few
  times before taking in a deep breath.
  
  He felt a pain in his chest.
  
  Lowering his head, he pressed his fingers against the back of his neck and was
  met with a sharp jolt of displeasure.
  
  He felt like he’d just had a bad dream. He couldn’t remember what it was, but
  somehow, he was sure it hadn’t been pleasant. He thought he remembered there
  being a woman with plaste