er need to keep a journal of my dreams now that Ori Fienberg, in his enigmatic encyclopedia, Where Babies Come From, has already instinctually inventoried for me all manner of jaw-dropping juxtapositions, pantries of canny uncanniness, to wake in and walk through. Nothing common about this commonplace book of revving reverie. Indeed, this fabulous fabulist collection presents as all kinds of imaginary volumes and imagined unimaginable books-an Atlas of airy aspirations, a Baedeker of Borgesian burbles, a Concordance of dissonant cornucopias, a Dictionary of Dadaistic ecstatic statics. On second thought-this is a compendium of second, third, fourth, and forty-forth thoughts after all-Where Babies Come From is not so much a journal of my dreams as it is a factory of my actual dreams, my dreaming of dreamy dreams."