Quotes About Surreal

En se réveillant un matin après des rêves agités, Gregor Samsa se retrouva, dans son lit, métamorphosé en un monstrueux insecte.

They embraced one another, her little body burned in K.'s hands, they rolled, in a semi-conscious state from which K. tried constantly but unsuccessfully to surface, a little way on, bumped into Klamm's door with a hollow thud, then lay there in the puddles of beer and the rubbish

Als Gregor Samsa eines Morgens aus unruhigen Träumen erwachte, fand er sich in seinem Bett zu einem ungeheuren Ungeziefer verwandelt.

It's obviously disappointing and surreal when you see someone else win the Stanley Cup.

People were following me home in cars, singing outside my window at my flat. I couldn't go to pubs or supermarkets or walk down the street. It was bizarre, but that was my life.

When Donald Duck traded his wings for arms, was he trading up or trading down?

The red carpet is kind of a surreal experience. There's nothing normal about it, so for me the most important thing is to maintain some normality right until the point you get out of the car.

It's like being hit up the arse by a rainbow.

There's a book called 'The Shack' - it had a lot to do with me coming full circle, meeting my birth mother. Awhile back, my birth mom and my adopted mom came to my show together, and it was pretty surreal.

When I won in 2003, never in my wildest dreams did I ever think I would win Wimbledon and have my kids seeing me lift the trophy, so this is pretty surreal. And yeah, I was almost shocked in the moment that it all came together so nicely.

Pewnego dnia, gdy ojciec, pijany bardziej ni? zwykle, wbi? mi w?a?nie w czo?o gruby gwó?d? i zawiesi? na nim obraz, który o?mieli?em si? skrytykowa?, powiedzia?em sobie w duchu: "By?oby pocieszaj?ce, gdyby zjawi?a si? wró?ka i odstawi?a ten numer z trzema ?yczeniami.

Just as he dropped with a jerk into the pit of unconsciousness, he thought how odd it was that he was falling asleep in his sleep. When he entered the dream that he was dreaming, later, it was a dream within the dream he dreamed originally when he lay down in his bed.

What we're living through is either unreal or too real.

Dear Blubbo, How is it going? It is fine here. My sisters are fine. Mom is usual. Everything is regular in life except I am still seeing the burning skull heads. Yesterday Mom took me to Sears for school clothes. I told my sisters I could see the people's head bones. They said DO NOT tell Mom. A guy moved a trailer onto the empty lot by our house. His skull is spectacular, many colors glowing.

But there is another reason why, from the writer's point of view, it would serve no purpose to approach them in that way: because to treat them as magical or surreal would be to rob them of precisely the quality that makes them so urgently compelling—which is that they are actually happening on this earth, at this time.

Films are like a dose of opium, then as you come out in the street it's a shock, and you are brutally awakened from your dream. But when you stay, you never wake up. The dream goes on working. I would fall asleep for a while and then see images on the screen, and I could not tell the difference between the film and a dream.

As if rising with her in his gyroscope of fantasy he took her to visit his collection of empty cages.

She wished she could swap her days for her nights, her reality for her dreams.

The leaves were sun-baked lizards, stirring towards the sea that churned its chain of silver snakes, which would, if given half the chance, coil round, pull him out of this urban setting, vomit him on dry land.

Some nights," I said, "I picture myself naked, covered in napalm, running down the street. But then it's not napalm. It's apple butter. And it's not a street. It's my mother.

But what he didn't understand was that this dreamland was preferable,walking through this life half-sleeping,everything at arm's length or farther away. I understood those mermaids.I didn't care if they sang to me.All I wanted was to block out all the human voices as they called me name again and again,pulling me upward into light,to drown.

From this distance, in the dimness, the model looked surreal, made up of parts filled with buildings, bordered by long stretches of empty space. It reminded me of the way cities and towns look when you are flying at night. You can't make out much. But the places where people have come together, and stayed, are collections of tiny lights, breaking up the darkness.

No, all that David could think about was the head of the deer-girl, for her face rubbed against his as they rode, her warm blood smeared his cheek, and he saw himself reflected in the dark green mirrors of her eyes.

From high in the air, London would look just like a model, with toy houses and miniature trees on tiny streets. Maybe that was the only way you could drop the bombs: by pretending that it wasn't real, that nobody would burn and die when they exploded below.