Ralph Ellison invaded my dreams last night to talk literature, smoking a pipe and drinking something dark and aromatic from a heavy tumbler. I was sufficiently awed and tongue-tied.
He started on themes. Man against man, against nature, against society. I mumbled something embarrassing and thankfully, unintelligible. He asked what I thought of Lenin. I replied that I preferred it to polyester.
Trying a different approach he asked to see some of my pages. I handed them over with unsteady hands.
He considered them a bit and then abruptly took his leave to "get some more tobacco."
He never returned.