Baudelaire says that true reality is the dream. If so, this book by Ismail Kadare anything would be an unbearable reality. More nightmare than dream, The Palace of Dreams inevitably reminiscent of Kafka, Borges, as read, and dream-from obscurity. As I thought about this, I almost instantly reproached simplistic comparison with the authors mentioned above, it would also have to think Pessoa, or Montaigne, if preferred. Literary relations between Kadare and others can not be merely the work of neurosis, neurosis dressed my intellect, I I said, and woke up surrounded by pamphlets were written in which all dreams: the dream of the world. More than dreams
regulated by a clearly totalitarian empire, which is built in the depths of the novel is betrayal, not just the empire but the source individual, family , which quickly becomes the only possible resistance to an imposed identity, the betrayals of self, victim or supporter of the system. Or both.
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