I hate dreams. Dreams are the Sea Monkeys of consciousness: in the back pages of sleep they promise us teeming submarine palaces but leave us, on waking, with a hermetic residue of freeze-dried dust. The wisdom of dreams is a fortune on paper that you can’t cash out, an oasis of shimmering water that turns, when you wake up, to a mouthful of sand. I hate them for their absurdities and deferrals, their endlessly broken promise to amount to something, by and by. I hate them for the way they ransack memory, jumbling treasure and trash. I hate them for their tedium, how they drag on, peter out, wander off.

Pretty much the only thing I hate more than my own dreams are yours.

Michael Chabon, Why I Hate Dreams
Charles Simic, When Movies Kept Us Awake at Night

It has always seemed strange to me that writers and poets of my generation and slightly older say little about the influence of movies on their work, and yet our first knowledge of the world came from them. Thanks to the movies, we got acquainted with New York, Paris, London and scores of other cities and countries for the first time. We fought in hundreds of wars, clashed swords with Roman legions and Medieval knights, boxed in a ring, faced off with knives in dark alleys, escaped from orphanages, prisons, and chain gangs, met ghosts and visitors from outer space, had ourselves hung by the neck, executed by firing squads, pardoned at the last minute from the guillotine and the electric chair. We danced with Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, consorted in after hours gambling joints with gangsters and their molls, smoked opium in Hong Kong, worked as spies, private detectives, and cowboys, ran from Genghis Khan, Napoleon, and Hitler, hunted for tigers and buffalos, explored jungles, deserts, and arctic wasteland. All this was between running errands for our mothers and grandmothers, doing our homework, and playing and fighting in the street with other kids from our neighborhood.

Charles Simic, When Movies Kept Us Awake at Night

It has always seemed strange to me that writers and poets of my generation and slightly older say little about the influence of movies on their work, and yet our first knowledge of the world came from them. Thanks to the movies, we got acquainted with New York, Paris, London and scores of other cities and countries for the first time. We fought in hundreds of wars, clashed swords with Roman legions and Medieval knights, boxed in a ring, faced off with knives in dark alleys, escaped from orphanages, prisons, and chain gangs, met ghosts and visitors from outer space, had ourselves hung by the neck, executed by firing squads, pardoned at the last minute from the guillotine and the electric chair. We danced with Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, consorted in after hours gambling joints with gangsters and their molls, smoked opium in Hong Kong, worked as spies, private detectives, and cowboys, ran from Genghis Khan, Napoleon, and Hitler, hunted for tigers and buffalos, explored jungles, deserts, and arctic wasteland. All this was between running errands for our mothers and grandmothers, doing our homework, and playing and fighting in the street with other kids from our neighborhood.