It's comforting, somehow, to know that even the dreams of famous writers are relatively boring and inscrutable.
These brief passages describe little of note--meetings with past lovers, interactions with friends, the occasional fantastical event. Mostly they are personal yet distant, impossible to parse to anyone looking in from the outside. Of the ninety-nine dreams recorded here, I found maybe three or four to be interesting or entertaining, the rest were just detritus. Which is what dreams mostly are, I think; I personally would be galled if my relatives decided to publish a collection of my dreams after my death. I'm not sure why Mahfouz recorded them but it was clearly not from an artistic aim.
The photographs are... fine, I suppose? Like the dreams, most of them didn't catch me, and a few were just poorly composed. They're mostly of people walking. Funny enough, the cover copy describes this book as "indelible," but it is the exact opposite. Extremely delible. Transient. Apt to be forgotten in a day or two.