Quotes About Sleep

In our sleep, pain which cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart until, in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom through the awful grace of God.

that we must suffer, suffer into truth. We cannot sleep, and drop by drop at the heart the pain of pain remembered comes again and we resist, but ripeness comes as well. From the gods enthroned on the awesome rowing-bench there comes a violent love.

radiant dreams are passing in the night, the memories throb with sorrow, joy with pain . . . it is pain to dream and see desires slip through the arms, a vision lost for ever winging down the moving drifts of sleep.

The sleeping brain has eyes that give us light; we can never see our destiny by day.

My parents sleep like children in the dark I am too far to hear them breathe

It was too cold to dream

My dove my little one tonight there will be wine and drunken suitors from the logging camps to pin you down in the outlying lands of sleep where all roads lead back to the home-village and water may be walked on)

Insomnia is his mind's revenge for all the tricky thoughts he has carefully avoided during the daylight hours.

Insomnia can, when it goes on for weeks, be hell. But in smaller doses -- a night here and there -- it doesn't always need a cure. It may even be an asset, a help with some key troubles of the soul. Crucial insights that we need to convey to ourselves can often be received only at night, like city church bells that have to wait until dark to be heard.

Aging is a bit like looking tired, but in a way that no amount of sleep will repair.

What an achievement a moment of calm now is, what a minor miracle the ability to fall asleep or to talk undistracted with a friend – and what monastic discipline would be required to make us turn away from the maelstrom of news and listen for a day to nothing but the rain and our own thoughts.

it is best to limit daytime naps to a maximum of 20 minutes and take them earlier in the day rather than later. Chill

Au jardin de mon père, les lilas sont fleuris. Tous les oiseaux du monde viennent y faire leur nid. Auprés de ma blonde, qu'il fait bon, fait bon, fait bon. Auprés de ma blonde, qu'il fait bon dormir.

You've been so lonely, he murmured as he searched for what he needed. So afraid to leave. A thin smile crossed his face. At night, desperate to sleep, you'd imagine an ocean. I can see it . . . I can see the island.

The birdsong was so loud that after it had woken you it drove you back to sleep.

His dreams have taken hold of his research. His dreams have worn him out, exhausted him so that he sometimes cannot tell whether he is awake or asleep.

Everyone went away. Everything vanished. People, places, turned to painful shadows of their former selves and then were put to sleep, just like the Boroughs had been.

Há quanto tempo eu não olhava você dormir? (...) E o que vejo agora é que, embora há anos durma sem mim, longe de mim, CONTRA MIM, continua dormindo com os braços amassados debaixo do travesseiro...

She had once loved sleep, had looked forward to being swallowed up by her slumber every night, but now sleep was something she chased. It was a furtive little animal that, even when caught, wriggled and scratched to free itself.

They did not like to know whose body they were burning. It gave them a personality. An identity. Someone's child. Someone's parent. Names made them wonder of the life lead by the dead before they came to the funeral pyre. The sufferings they left behind, and the desires they still clung too. Such thoughts made it difficult for them to sleep. Burning a nameless corpse was so much better—like burning garbage, a chore that did not stir a thought or a feeling.

Never go to sleep with bad thoughts and torturing memories. They will not help you to wake up whole and fully serene—the two states of mind and body without which no man can acquit himself well at his day's task. A child should be ushered into the chamber of sleep with serene joy.

She let herself stray past the stage of sleep and even past the stage of remembering, and she wanders into the stage of soul-searching. Sometimes when she lies awake her body feels as finely made as a tuning fork. She can hear and smell the most delicate things, the smell and music of thought itself.

It was so unlike her not to be able to sleep. No matter what was going on, she was usually out the second her head hit the pillow.

Sleep was not a friend these days. It was just the waiting period between nightmares.