In a so-called dream diary (eight years' worth of groggy scribblings), the Granddaddy-o of Beat barfs forth the unabridged contents of his bloated subconscious with a maniacally punctuated gusto that'll have you longing for the square orthodoxy of On the Road. But shorn of that work's breathless ecstasy, Dreams simply proves that the only thing more embarrassing than reading your own journal entries is reading someone else's. Not that footnote-starved scholars won't find plenty to beat their bongos about: On display is elegiac Jack (''The older you get the deeper your cellar gets, more like a grave''), petty Jack (''In New York they're stealing my ideas, getting published, being feted''), and a whole lot that doesn't mean Jack (''Immense sagas all night long, fantastic detailed nightmares of me losing my pants twice in a row...'').
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