Quotes About Sleep

And now I'm sleepy, because I think – I don't know why – that the meaning of it all is to sleep.

I sleep and unsleep.

My isolation is not a search for happiness, which I do not have the heart to win, nor for peace, which one finds only when it will never more be lost; what I seek is sleep, extinction, a small surrender.

It was just a moment, and I saw myself. I can no longer even say what I was. And now I'm sleepy, because I think – I don't know why – that the meaning of it all is to sleep.

O amor, o sono, as drogas e intoxicantes, são formas elementares da arte, ou, antes, de produzir o mesmo efeito que ela.

Durmo e desdurmo.

pude enfim, eu que não dormira, erguer lentamente o corpo exausto de nada da cama de onde pensara o universo

É tão magno o tédio, tão soberano o horror de estar vivo, que não concebo que coisa haja que pudesse servir de lenitivo, de antídoto, de bálsamo ou esquecimento para ele. Dormir horroriza-me como tudo. Morrer horroriza-me como tudo. Ir e parar são a mesma coisa impossível. Esperar e descrer equivalem-se em frio e cinza. Sou uma prateleira de frascos vazios.

Love, sleep, drugs and intoxicants are elementary forms of art, or rather, of producing the same effect as art. But love, sleep and drugs all have their disillusion.

All it would take to make a catalogue of monsters is to photograph in words the things the night brings to drowsy souls unable to sleep. These things have all the incoherence of dreams without the alibi of sleeping. They hover like bats over the soul's passivity, or like vampires that suck the blood of submission.

And suddenly the metaphysically abrupt noise of the arrival of the office boy. I could kill him for interrupting what I was not thinking. I look at him, turning around, in a silence full of hatred; I listen, expectantly, in a tension of latent homicide. He smiles from the back of the office and says hello out loud. I hate him as I hate the universe. My eyes are leaden with sleep.

Ele dorme dentro da minha alma E às vezes acorda de noite E brinca com os meus sonhos. Vira uns de pernas para o ar, Põe uns em cima dos outros E bate as palmas sozinho Sorrindo para o meu sono.

Nem sei pensar, do sono que tenho; nem sei sentir, do sono que não consigo ter. Tudo no meu torno é o universo nu, abstrato, feito de negações noturnas.

Sé que desperté y que duermo todavía. Mi cuerpo antiguo, molido de tanto vivir, me dice que es muy temprano aún...

E, por fim, tenho sono, porque, não sei porquê, acho que o sentido é dormir.

Adeus, Ophelinha. Durma e coma, e não perca gramas.

The essence of what I desire is simply this: to sleep away life. I love life too much to want it to be over; I love not living too much to have an active craving for life.

Dormir (...) Una nada con respiración por fuera, una muerte leve de la que se despierta con nostalgia y frescor, un ceder los tejidos del alma al masaje del olvido.

I sleep on my elbows propped painfully on the railing and feel a great promise in knowing nothing.

It is not tedium that one feels. It is not grief. It is the desire to go to sleep clothed in a different personality, to forget, dulled by an increase in salary.

No, we don't feel anything. We consciously pass through the door we have to enter, and the fact we have to enter it is enough to put us to sleep.

The truth is that nothing changes anything and what we say or do only brushes the tops of the mountains in whose valleys all things sleep.

There's no sunset so lovely it couldn't be yet lovelier, no gentle breeze bringing us sleep that couldn't bring a yet sounder sleep.

The rustic, the reader of novels, the pure ascetic: these three are the truly happy men, because they have all renounced their personality — the first because he lives by instinct, which is impersonal, the second because he lives through his imagination, which is oblivion, and the third because he does not live and, not yet having died, sleeps.