In Miss Lutter’s tidy little house everything had been too personal. Everything had meant too much. In the General Washington, nothing was personal and nothing meant anything except what you saw. Except for the top, seventh-floor suites (which Rebecca had never seen) rooms were identically furnished. There were identical bedspreads, lampshades, sheets of stationery and memo pads gilt-embossed with the hotel’s name on identical desks. Even, on the walls, identical reproductions of nineteenth-century paintings depicting scenes on the Erie Barge Canal in the late 1800s.

Maybe, in identical beds, there were identical dreams?

No one would know. For no one would wish to aknowledge, his dreams were identical with the dreams of others.

Joyce Carol Oates, The Gravedigger’s Daughter

* Do You Still Dream? une photo de zenera.