All my life I have put myself to sleep with a novel, eyes pulling down as I struggle to read, dreams wending vine-like into whatever story I am reading. Sometimes I awake and try to settle myself on the page again, only to find that the words on the page don’t match the story in my head. Proust writes about this in one of his interminable Remembrances novels, this being the only thing I remember about them. I’m sure I fell asleep to him as well. Presumably he would be forgiving.
These days (or nights I should say) I get into bed with my laptop, watch the red Netflix page download and, soon enough, delight to the introduction: Previously on Damages. No matter how cold-bloodedly conniving Ms. Close is I fall asleep to her too.
These are my grownup and plugged-in bedtime stories. Proust and Damages, however different they are, they have the same soporific affect.