Now, I won't pretend that all the cephapples I reviewed could be properly termed works of art. Most of them, in fact, could be properly termed garbage. Other critics got to analyze realistic psychological dreams about love, hate, marriage, divorce, friendship, parenthood, death, and angst. I got to review dreams in which homicidal maniacs stalked through back alleys, sucking out streetwalkers' brains with weaselpumps; in which martial-arts experts felled entire police forces with their feet; in which Antaresian plasmidleopards escaped from circuses and set about terrorizing the nearest elementary schools; in which starship captains brought law and order to hinterland planets using nothing but their nitrogen-cooled laser rifles and chiseled chins.
I'll tell you something, though. I did not hate the lurid dreams. The best of them had an emotional reality, a core of honest sensation, that brought me nearer to aesthetic truth than did the stuff that the literati were always fussing over. Art, I believe, is where you find it.
--James Morrow, Continent of Lies