Adam’s dreams have lately included the following subjects: vampires, lewd acts (performed by him in front of a varied audience of teachers and church leaders of his youth), watermelons, shoving him arms up to his elbows into mucky, muddy sand as the tide fades into the distance and then rushes back in, houses he can’t afford to buy but can’t stop thinking about, following the men into the mine and not coming back out, Blake running after him through the muskeg and blueberry and bearberry bushes, and Justine. She shows up every night, especially in those odd twilight moments right before sleep overcomes him, when he’s neither here nor there. One moment his mind is telling him he’s riding his bicycle to the gas station in the old aunt’s neighborhood for a chocolate bar and a soda and the next moment there she is, standing next to his bed and leaning over, her black hair tickling his cheek and whispering things that aren’t in English or even French. She breathes a language that’s older than the Valley and to him it sounds like what clouds must confess to one another that they’ve seen down below. And when Adam wakes from these fitful dreams of love and longing and lust and guilt, his cricket legs are twisted in his quilt and his heart thuds and his mind wanders again back to Justine.
(Hedy Lamarr in Ecstacy)