The death of dreams english literature essay

Why didn't anybody come? It was a very nice funeral.

The death of dreams english literature essay

It really was my own fault. I should not have invited him to come and go as he desired.


My dream began just like one of the horror games I love playing. For some reason I was holed up behind an old counter of a small and dilapidated shop, hiding from something. Or, was I waiting? I could hear the soft, faint sound of someone breathing everywhere I went.

I peered into the street through the smeared glass of the front door and slunk out cautiously. I could see a street which was deserted, dimly lit and covered with a thick rising mist. All around was dead empty and dead silent but for the noise in my ears of someone breathing.

I seemed to be in a city but for some reason this urban landscape was utterly desolate. I began to walk. The street was sloped which quickened my pace. I suddenly stopped in by an abandoned, neglected looking tenement. It was all over a shambles and a ruin.

An unnaturally dense fog hung and the moon cast an angry crimson glare giving the streets the appearance of a painting by Hieronymus Bosch.

The death of dreams english literature essay

I felt the urge to go in, as though something forced me. I cautiously tiptoed up to the door and opened it. There was nothing of immediate significance inside that I could see, nothing bar a few tattered cardboard boxes and a rickety table.

Yet it seemed the noise was much louder. I was certain it came from this room. In a shadowed corner I noticed a sleeping figure who lay on a stained and tattered mattress.

She was both familiar to me and yet so strange and distant.

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She stirred in her sleep, as though she had nightmares that tormented her. Somewhere in my memory her careworn face flashed a spark of recognition but it was fleeting and unclear.

Without knowing why, I hated her. Her sleeping figure seemed to be teasing me. Before I could understand why I had bent down and scrambled for the first heavy object I could reach and had brought it swiftly and violently down on her skull.

I did this over and over again until my entire arm was drenched with her blood and pulped matter was sticking to me. The noise had stopped. As my eyes darted wildly from one corner to the next I noticed on the table an object that had not been there before.

Death in Nineteenth-Century British Literature Critical Essays - Dreams in literature Essay:

The moonlight appeared to intentionally glint off it. I knew what had to be done and I will obey.

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Without further hesitation I seized the knife and strode back to the pulped mass on the bed. Her hair was a tangled mass that partially veiled her face. The back of her head was a gushing cavity. I felt as if I knew her but I cannot be sure. I ripped the sheet from her corpse and brought the knife down savagely, tearing through and ripping the soft flesh from her bones, until all of the shining pink muscles were showing.

I started grasping the slippery tendons, dissecting them until there was a mound of seeping viscera. I now had the raw material I needed to conclude this ceremony.This free English Literature essay on Essay: Dreams in literature is perfect for English Literature students to use as an example.

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