>>25562769
if they're well written and interesting according to my taste I'm into it, simple as that. There's pretty much nothing that I dislike entirely no matter how it's executed.

>>25562769
>They have a bad reputation in fiction
Provide evidence of this

>>25563316
>Serious thing happen
>Next chapter: So, I woke up...
This is the most obvious trope I could think of on the fly. To answer both you and OP they're only acceptable when THEY MATTER. Hacks love pulling the "it was a dream all along" card and think it makes them seem clever when all it does is waste reader-time
And in a media-landscape like today, time is precious
>Tldr don't waste reader's time with BS scenes and you'll be okay
Also keep these questions for /wg/

>>25563334
I asked for evidence not seethe. Just say you don't like it.

>>25563336
>Capital letter = seethe
I used them because I am unable to italicize words on this site for emphasis. Are (you) new here?
And looking back I'll admit I misread your question.
The answer is, it's impossible to prove, but OP s right. You would have to somewhat be aware of common cliche's in media and how they're viewed (Which you obviously aren't aware of).
They're just rarely used well.

>You don't like them
>I simply explained how to use them properly
Are you diagnosed?

>>25563316
>"Tell a dream, lose a reader."
Usually attributed to Henry James

>>25563476
You sure are mad
>>25563521
>usually attributed
So you haven't read a book have you? You did a google search for relevant quotes and found an author's name you recognize as being suitably authoritative.

>>25563521
Do you talk to people who read books? Yes or No answer.
>If No
Thread is useless and I'm just going to assume you're OP baiting for replies
>If Yes
Talk to more people.

Dream sequences being subpar is a pretty talked about topic. Similar vein of mirrors being a poor way to do physical descriptions.

Meant for >>25563531

>>25563557
Just name a book you've read that uses dream sequences and explain why they didn't work well. There's reason to be mad, except I'm not gonna give you an example myself.

>>25563565
Alright, let me think cause it's been a bit since I've read books on that level
>That one in Twilight; I remember it being very expository
>Dresden Files had one in book 2 or 3? The dream did pretty much nothing, not even sure why it was there
It has been a really long time since I've read stuff like this so you only get two examples for right now. If a book starts with a dream sequence I usually just stop reading there, so I've been filtered

>>25563531
Was mommy not there to cuddle you last night when you had a nightmare buddy? You've got problems lol

a frog thread died for this

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>>25562769
simple - when it's literally the whole novel.

>>25563620
>Begin again, Finnegan
First line still gives me chills to this day. What an opener

>>25562769
Genuinely, The Sopranos is the only show where dream sequences were depicted as somewhat realistic. Most dream sequences in fiction are so far-apart from real life dreams they come across as lazy gimmicks for the author to communicate what he's trying to say.
That being said, Svidrigailov's dream in C&P was well written. And there are sections in Naked Lunch where dreams are dealt with, but that whole book is very surreal and dreamlike as is.

>He was hanging on a gallows or a high branch--in any case, at a great height--the sun was shining, yet this posture, though certainly uncomfortable, did not seem to involve any immediate inconvenience, since he was taking particular pleasure in contemplating the sun-flooded landscape and the globed treetops far below. But the heart of the sensual joy that filled him was much nearer: beneath him--so close that at times his bare feet almost brushed against her blond hair--a thin cord suspended Mona by the neck from his ankles. The wind swung both of them gently through the balmy, pleasant air, and from the rope that was strangling Mona, especially when she was shaken by faint convulsions that raised her shoulders, he received--at his bound ankles and also at his neck where the cord took another turn--so exquisite a communication of her naked living weight searching, stretching, piecing his body, that he experienced a physical pleasure he had never known before, this ending in the final indecency attributed to hanged men.

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>>25562769
I like The Unconsoled

'An Affair of Honour' by Nabokov and the second story in The Fifth Head of Cerberus.

>>25563334
Do they matter if they communicate something about the character having them, like desires and anxieties?

>>25563334
Do you... think /wg/ stands for writing general, and not wallpapers general?

>>25564285
I want to say yes, because it can be done, but the truth is you'll filter out 90% of people for some of the reasons below. And there's probably just a better way of doing that
>No one cares about dreams in real life so why should I care about this guy's (unironic real opinion)
>Why doesn't the author just show this in story?
>Did the author really just waste our time for this one-off expository dream?
>I could've ignored this and lost none of the story
>>25564288
I forgot none of us write

>>25564361
You don't understand dreams? Lol this thread makes sense now. No soul.

i think it works in surrealist or magical realist works. Where you are often being shown strange things that have some bearing on the overall plot and may or may not be real.

>>25564378
>Explains why people don't like dream sequences in books
>Actually this is EXACTLY how you think
Everyone here now knows you have zero reading comprehension, and you're also probably diagnosed.
You're the type of retard to think that the author agrees with everything they put in their book

The caravan has halted. It is the end of the line. All the evacuees are ordered out. They move slowly, but without resistance. Those marshaling them wear cockades the color of lead, and do not speak. It is some vast, very old and dark hotel, an iron extension of the track and switchery by which they have come here. . . . Globular lights, painted a dark green, hang from under the fancy iron eaves, unlit for centuries . . . the crowd moves without murmurs or coughing down corridors straight and functional as warehouse aisles . . . velvet black surfaces contain the movement: the smell is of old wood, of remote wings empty all this time just reopened to accommodate the rush of souls, of cold plaster where all the rats have died, only their ghosts, still as cave-painting, fixed stubborn and luminous in the walls . . . the evacuees are taken in lots, by elevator—a moving wood scaffold open on all sides, hoisted by old tarry ropes and cast-iron pulleys whose spokes are shaped like Ss. At each brown floor, passengers move on and off . . . thousands of these hushed rooms without light. . . .
Some wait alone, some share their invisible rooms with others. Invisible, yes, what do the furnishings matter, at this stage of things? Underfoot crunches the oldest of city dirt, last crystallizations of all the city had denied, threatened, lied to its children. Each has been hearing a voice, one he thought was talking only to him, say, “You didn’t really believe you’d be saved. Come, we all know who we are by now. No one was ever going to take the trouble to save you, old fellow. . . .”
There is no way out. Lie and wait, lie still and be quiet. Screaming holds across the sky. When it comes, will it come in darkness, or will it bring its own light? Will the light come before or after?
But it is already light. How long has it been light? All this while, light has come percolating in, along with the cold morning air flowing now across his nipples: it has begun to reveal an assortment of drunken wastrels, some in uniform and some not, clutching empty or near-empty bottles, here draped over a chair, there huddled into a cold fireplace, or sprawled on various divans, un-Hoovered rugs and chaise longues down the different levels of the enormous room, snoring and wheezing at many rhythms, in self-renewing chorus, as London light, winter and elastic light, grows between the faces of the mullioned windows, grows among the strata of last night’s smoke still hung, fading, from the waxed beams of the ceiling. All these horizontal here, these comrades in arms, look just as rosy as a bunch of Dutch peasants dreaming of their certain resurrection in the next few minutes.