“What dreams may come” in the sleep of death, Prince Hamlet says in his famed soliloquy, “must give us pause.” In other words, we go on with life, even at the times when doing so seems most difficult, because we really don't know what awaits us beyond the boundaries of this life. There are many different beliefs regarding the prospects for life after death, but we all wonder what it will be like to pass from life into death – and novelist Richard Matheson, a writer famed for his ventures into speculative fiction, sought to explore just such philosophical questions in his 1978 novel What Dreams May Come.
Matheson, in his earlier career, had been better-known for science-fiction, horror, and suspense works like I Am Legend (1954), A Stir of Echoes (1958), and the scripts that he wrote for TV’s The Twilight Zone. Later on, however, he turned more toward speculative fantasy, with works like the 1975 time-travel romance Bid Time Return (Somewhere in Time).
By the time he wrote What Dreams May Come, Matheson was 52; and by that age, one is likely to be confronting intimations of mortality. It makes sense, therefore, that just as Somewhere in Time chronicles a love that could conquer time, What Dreams May Come tells a story of a man whose love and concern for his family continues beyond death.
What Dreams May Come is a framed tale that begins with Robert Nielsen’s recollections of receiving a manuscript from a psychic who said she had spent six months transcribing a communication that she received from his brother Chris – his deceased brother Chris. Robert was angry at the psychic’s presumptuousness, but he eventually accepts the manuscript, and read it repeatedly. He suggests to the reader that “If the manuscript is true, all of us had better examine our lives. Carefully” (p. 12).
With that, we are off into the main action of What Dreams May Come. Chris Nielsen, a man with a young family and much to live for, is involved in a serious automobile accident. He sees himself die on the operating-room table, and “a man in street clothes” (p. 25) gently informs him that he has died. His attempts to deny what has happened to him go on for quite a few pages.
Yet after denial comes, eventually, acceptance. Chris spends a good bit of his immediate post-death aftermath in the family home. There is an attempt by Chris’s family to employ the services of a psychic to achieve a connection with the deceased Chris; but the attempt fails, and in its aftermath a dispirited Chris turns back toward his son’s room and is momentarily surprised to find himself passing effortlessly through the closed door of the room: “I went through it in an instant and the loathsome realization struck me: I’m a ghost” (p. 53).
As Dante the Pilgrim, in Dante Aligheri’s Divine Comedy, is guided through Hell and Purgatory by the Roman poet Virgil, and through Paradise by Dante the Poet’s beloved friend Beatrice, so Chris Nielsen has his own guide – a kindly man in “a white, short-sleeved shirt, white slacks and sandals” (p. 68). This man, named Albert, is Chris’s guide through a peaceful and serene after-life realm called “Summerland.”
Albert as Chris’s guide informs Chris that death “is a state of mind”, asking Chris, “What does that motto on the wall of your office say? That which you believe becomes your world” (p. 70). He goes on to provide Chris with a working definition of death as “a refocusing of consciousness from physical reality to mental – a tuning into higher fields of vibration” (p. 70).
Albert even uses a sort of parable to express to Chris the idea that “Death is merely continuation at another level” (p. 70), asking Chris, “Does a man’s existence change in any way when he removes his overcoat? Neither does it change when death removes the overcoat of his body. He’s still the same person. No wiser. No happier. No better off. Exactly the same” (p. 70).
One of the most interesting parts of What Dreams May Come, for me, comes when Albert informs Chris that “every thought we have takes on a form we must eventually confront”, and adds that “It’s a painful thing to learn, I know” (p. 83). Hearing from Albert that every recently deceased person undergoes “A time of purging”, once one has “no physical body to dull the pain of your re-experienced life”, Chris invokes a religious concept that I found familiar, given the circumstances of my upbringing:
“Is that what the Catholics mean by purgatory?”
“In essence.” He nodded. “A period during which each soul is cleansed by a self-imposed recognition of past deeds – and misdeeds.”
“Self-imposed,” I repeated. “There really is no outside judgement, then?”
“What condemnation could possibly be more harsh than one’s own when self-pretense is no longer possible?” he said. (p. 84)
The afterlife, mind you, is not all one big Summerland – a peaceful place of contentment that might remind some readers of the Elysian Fields from Greek mythology. Albert tells Chris that “For everything in life, there’s a counterpart in afterlife. This includes the most beautiful as well as the ugliest of phenomena” (p. 102). Albert’s words foreshadow some of the harsher afterlife experiences that Chris will undergo later in the book.
Matheson did a great deal of research in preparing to write What Dreams May Come, and that research shows through in the way he has Chris recall how “Memories of the death experience started flooding back to me….[I]t had been my etheric double disengaging itself from the nerve ends of my physical body” (p. 107). If he felt “sluggish and stupid, unable to think clearly”, it was because “two-thirds of my consciousness had been inoperative, my mind still enveloped by etheric matter which had been part of my physical brain” (p. 109). The New Age qualities of all this talk about “etheric matter” might be a bit much for some readers.
A crisis in the action of What Dreams May Come occurs when Chris learns that his wife Ann, unable to deal with her grief at Chris’s death, has killed herself. An anguished Chris makes sense of frightening dreams that had plagued him, even amidst the peace of Summerland:
I knew why she’d had those nightmarish visions of her begging me to save her. Again, in memory, I saw her look of terror as she slid across the cliff edge, sank beneath the churning waters of the pool, fell in bloody shock before the bear’s attack. The cliff and pool and bear had all been symbols of my fear for her, not dreams but premonitions. She’d been pleading for my help, asking me to stop her from doing what she’d felt herself about to do. (p. 157)
Chris wants to try to rescue Ann from the unhappy afterlife realm to which her act of suicide has consigned her, but Albert tries to dissuade him. They travel from the paradisacal Summerland to a more hellish place – an afterlife realm where people are making each other unhappy, becoming more unhappy together. Albert says, “Misery loves company, is what they say on earth. It should be: Misery, in company, grows ever worse” (p. 180), and adds that “That’s the pitfall of free will. Any man or woman possesses the capacity to give entry to dark thoughts” (p. 185).
When Chris asks about Hell, Albert tells him that “There’s no one place called Hell….What men have called Hell is a vacuum in which undeveloped souls find themselves after death. A level of existence which they cannot rise above because they are unable to think abstractly but can only dwell on temporal matters” (p. 201). In Ann’s particular case, once Chris arrives at Ann’s particular part of the afterlife, Hell is a hideous, twisted, distorted, decayed version of the home that they once shared. Seeing what is there, and not there, he reflects that “this was her particular limbo and could only possess what she expected to see in it” (p. 206).
Chris, having travelled like Orpheus to Hell to save the woman he loves, tries desperately to help Ann get out of Hell, asking her to recall their relationship and the happiness they once shared.
How she tried. God in heaven, Robert, how she tried. I saw each moment of it on her face. Something in my words had ignited a tiny flame in her mind and now she strained to keep it burning. Not even knowing what had sparked it into life. Not even knowing it was lit but only sensing that it was. Aware of something. Something different. Something other than the wretchedness she’s been existing with. (p. 253)
There is much that is thought-provoking about What Dreams May Come – particularly Chris’s suggestion, near the end of the novel, that “People are not punished for their deeds but by them” (p. 279). This statement seems intrinsic to Matheson’s evident wish to craft a sort of Unified Field Theory of the Afterlife.
The book includes a bibliography of 85 works on the subject of life after death. In a foreword, Matheson urges the reader to read them all, insisting that “there is a persistent, unavoidable uniformity to their content”, and suggesting that reading all of these works about life-after-death is “an enlightening – and extraordinary – experience” (p. 8). As far as he is concerned, the only “fictional” thing about What Dreams May Come is “the characters and their relationships” (p. 8).
You can decide for yourself how “non-fictional” What Dreams May Come is. The book is certainly a good and engaging book, and – like many of Matheson’s other works – it inspired a film version. The 1998 film has a very fine cast (Robin Williams as Chris, Cuba Gooding Jr. as Albert, Annabella Sciorra as Ann, and Max von Sydow as an afterlife “tracker”), and it won an Academy Award for visual effects. Yet I find the film almost impossible to watch nowadays, not for any flaws in the film – it’s a good movie – but because we all know that actor Robin Williams, like the character of Ann whom Chris tries to rescue in both the book and film versions of What Dreams May Come, ultimately took his own life, in 2014. It’s impossible to watch Williams the actor’s work, in a 1998 film where suicide is a key plot element, without thinking of what happened 16 years later to Williams the person.
Such reflections reinforce my sense that What Dreams May Come is an interesting and thought-provoking novel. While I may not buy into a number of Matheson’s speculations regarding the afterlife – I find some of the sources that he cited in his bibliography quite questionable – Matheson remains a gifted storyteller with a pronounced gift for asking the reader to entertain a genuinely engaging “what-if” scenario.