What are the most dream like books?

hardboiled wonderland and the end of the world

Less than Zero/Imperial Bedrooms

antonio tabucchi - indian nocturne

Finnegans wake...

.........someone...........already
...
.

....
....
...said..........
That
..............

Huysmans - En rade

A Description of a Struggle

Pan by Knut Hamsun

William Hope Hodgson if I remember correctly.

almost done with this

Ligotti. He might catch some shit around here, his stuff is great if you're looking for some dreamlike fiction.

Anything by this Absolute Madman.

For a different kind of dreams, consider adding Clark Ashton Smith to your Lovecraft and Ligotti.

I am eerily drawn by this picture. It's pulling me towards its core. I feel compelled to save it. Now I have it, or perhaps it has me.

Yum

The once and future king

This. It's strange enough that it is nearly like a fever dream. Very comfy read.

The erlking by angela carter if you like forest fantasy. It's a story only a page long or so but it's a nice read if you like bedtime tales. The Infernal Desire Machines of Doctor Hoffman is book-length and written by her as well.
I've never read alfred Jarry's La Surmâle partly because the copy I have is in french and I can't speak the language, but i'm positive there are translations. Its been recommended to me a few times though so it might be something you like.

After Dark - Haruki Murakami

100% pure vaporwave dreampop fuel

The Blind Owl

Gravity's Rainbow is like a really long fever dream that ends with a seizure.

Nadja

Any of Roberto Bolano's short stories. All have this weird fever dream vibe to them and some have that feel of waking up after a dream and that haze that lingers...

Nothing posted so far compares to The Unconsoled.

The French surrealists are a good pick:

Nadja - Breton
Locus Solus - Roussell
Babylon - Crevel

THIS. Bruno Schulz is goat

>Babylon - Crevel

I've been searching for this book since forever, I think the last edition is completely sold out. Is there any angel out there who has a digital copy of it?

Even more so than his short stories I'd say Monsieur Pain and especially Antwerp

K H A R M S
H
A
R
M
S

How I was visited by messengers

There was a knocking noise in the clock and the messengers came to me. It took me a while to realize that the messengers had come to me. First I thought something had gone bad in the clock. But then I saw that the clock continued ticking and, in all probability, showed the right time. Then I thought there was a draft in the room. And suddenly I was surprised: what kind of phenomenon can this be for which both the flawed ticking of the clock and a draft in the room can serve as the cause. Thinking this over I sat in the chair next to the sofa and gazed at the clock. The minute hand stood at nine, and the hour hand near four, therefore it was a quarter to four. Under the clock hung a tear-off calendar and the calendar’s pages fluttered as if a strong wind was blowing in the room. My heart pounded and I was afraid I would lose consciousness.
“I’ve got to drink some water,” I said. On the table next to me stood a pitcher of water. I reached out my hand and took the pitcher.
“Water might help,” I said and started to examine the water.
It was then I realized that the messengers had come to me, but I could not distinguish them from the water. I was afraid to drink the water because I might by accident drink up a messenger. What does this mean? This doesn’t mean anything. Once can only drink liquid. And can messengers really be liquid? So that means I can drink the water, there’s nothing to fear. But I couldn’t find the water. I walked about the room looking for it. I tried sticking a belt in my mouth, but it was not water. I stuck the calendar in my mouth—this was also not water. I forgot about the water and began looking for the messengers. But how is one to find them? What do they look like? I recalled that I could not distinguish them from water, so that meant they must look like water. But what does water look like? I stood and thought.
I don’t know how long I stood there and thought, but suddenly I quivered.
“Here’s the water!” I said to myself. But it was not water, it was just that my ear had begun to itch.
I started groping under the wardrobe and under the bed, thinking that there I would surely find water or a messenger. But under the wardrobe, among the dust, I found only a ball chewed up by a dog, and under the bed some pieces of broken glass.
Under a chair I found a partly eaten meatball. I ate it and felt better. The wind was already hardly blowing, and the clock ticked calmly, showing the correct time: a quarter to four.
“Well, so the messengers have already gone,” I said to myself and started to change clothes in order to go visit some friends.

fuck, now that is dreamlike

Which is his collections would you recommend to read first?

there's only two
The Plummeting Old Women (less content, but with a few letters and 'plays')
Today I Wrote Nothing (just about everything he wrote, besides those letters and dialogs)
The order doesn't matter. I'd read "Plummeting" first because it's shorter and has a nice essay linking Kharms and Flann O'Brien.

>The Trunk

A thin-necked man climbed into a trunk, shut the lid behind him and began gasping for breath.
– So – said the thin-necked man, gasping for breath – I am gasping for breath in this trunk because I’ve got a thin neck. The lid of the trunk is down and isn’t letting any air in. I shall be gasping for breath, but all the same I won’t open the lid of the trunk. I shall be gradually dying. I shall see the struggle of life and death. The battle which takes place will be an unnatural one, with the chances equal, because under natural conditions death triumphs, and life, doomed to death, merely struggles in vain with the enemy, clinging until the last minute to a futile hope. But in the struggle which will take place now, life will be cognizant of the means of victory: to achieve this life will have to force my hands to open the lid of the trunk. We shall see who will win! Only there’s an awful smell of napthalene. If life triumphs I shall powder all the things in the trunk with makhorka.* So, it has begun: I can’t breathe any more. I’m finished, that’s clear. There’s no saving me now! And there are no lofty thoughts in my head. I’m suffocating!
– Hey! What’s that then? Something just happened but I can’t make out exactly what. I saw something or heard something …
– Hey! Something happened again. My God! There’s nothing to breath. It seems I’m dying …
– And now what’s that then? Why am I singing? My neck seems to be hurting … But where’s the trunk? Why can I see all the things in the room? And I seem to be lying on the floor! But where’s the trunk?
The man with the thin neck got up from the floor and looked round. The trunk was nowhere around. On the chairs and on the bed lay things which had been pulled out of the trunk, but the trunk was nowhere around.
The thin-necked man said:
– So, life has triumphed over death by means unknown to me.

Murakami nails the feeling of strange, dreamlike detachment in his books. Shame IQ84 didn't live up to his other works.

>Locus Solus - Roussel
yes

Also because Hedayat is god tier.

infinite jest when gately was in the hospital