The other night I dreamt that I was talking to Vladimir Nabokov. Actually it was more a matter of him talking to me - which he was doing in Russian-accented French, much of which was proving hard to understand. Sensing this, he inquired - in French - if I didn't habitually converse in French when at home. 'Pas totalement,' I replied, which seemed to amuse him slightly.
I remember no more, and have no idea what it can have meant. I'd sooner have been dreaming - as Nabokov did on a good night - of butterflies.