Quotes About Dreams

Cuántas horas he pasado conviviendo en secreto con mi idea de ella! ¡Nos hemos amado tanto, dentro de mis sueños! Pero ni siquiera ahí, se lo juro, he soñado nunca poseerla. Soy delicado y casto incluso en mis sueños. Respeto hasta el sueño de una mujer bella.

We all have two lives: The true, the one we dreamed of in childhood And go on dreaming of as adults in a substratum of mist; the false, the one we love when we live with others, the practical, the useful, the one we end up by being put in a coffin.

My hapless peers with their lofty dreams--how I envy and despise them! I'm with the others, the even more hapless, who have no-one but themselves to whom they can tell their dreams and show what would be verses if they wrote them. I'm with those poor slobs who have no books to show, who have no literature beside their own soul, and who are suffocating to death due to the fact that they exist without having taken that mysterious, transcendental exam that makes one eligible to live.

Let us sculpt in hopeless silence all our dreams of speaking.

I never had anyone I could call "Master". No Christ died for me. No Buddha showed me the right path. In the depths of my dreams no Apollo or Athena appeared to me to enlighten my soul

I have cultivated several personalities within myself. I constantly cultivate personalities. Each of my dreams, immediately after I dream it, is incarnated into another person, who then goes on to dream it, and I stop. To create, I destroyed myself; I made myself external to such a degree within myself that within myself I do not exist except in an external fashion. I am the living setting in which several actors make entrances, putting on several different plays.

I am nothing. I will never be anything. I cannot wish to be anything. Bar that, I have in me all the dreams of the world.

Everything, except boredom, bores me. I'd like, without being calm, to calm down, To take life every day Like a medicine— One of those medicines everybody takes. I aspired to so much, dreamed so much, That so much so much made me into nothing. My hands grew cold From just waiting for the enchantment Of the love that would warm them up at last. Cold, empty Hands.

THIRD WATCHER Let her speak. Don't interrupt. She knows words that mermaids taught her...I'm falling asleep in order to hear her...Go on, sister, go on...My heart aches because I wasn't you when you dreamed at the seashore...

Talking to people makes me feel like sleeping. Only my ghostly and imaginary friends, only the conversations I have in my dreams, are genuinely real and substantial.

FIRST WATCHER Why do people die? SECOND WATCHER Perhaps because they don't dream enough...

O night in which the stars feign light, O night that alone is the size of the Universe, make me, body and soul, part of your body, so that—being mere darkness—I'll lose myself and become night as well, without any dreams as stars within me, nor a hoped-for sun shining with the future.

I feel as if I'm always on the verge of waking up.

I am the outskirts of some non-existent town, the long-winded prologue to an unwritten book. I'm nobody, nobody. I don't know how to feel or think or love. I'm a character in a novel as yet unwritten, hovering in the air and undone before I've even existed, amongst the dreams of someone who never quite managed to breathe life into me.

My dreams are a stupid shelter, like an umbrella against lightning.

La música, la luz de la luna y los sueños son mis armas mágicas.

Sometimes, when I wake up at night, I feel invisible hands weaving my destiny.

Sometimes I muse about how wonderful it would be if I could string all my dreams together into one continuous life, a life consisting of entire days full of imaginary companions and created people.

I had come from wondrous lands, from landscapes more enchanting than life, but only to myself did I ever mention these lands, and I said nothing about the landscapes which I saw in dreams. My feet stepped like theirs over the floorboards and the flagstones, but my heart was far away, even if it beat close by, false master of an estranged and exiled body.

If this be to have sense, if to be awake Be but to see this bright, great sleep of things, For the rarer potion mine own dreams I'll take And for truth commune with imaginings

Ich bin der Zwischenraum zwischen dem, was ich bin, und dem, was ich nicht bin, zwischen dem, was ich träume, und dem, was das Leben aus mir gemacht hat, der abstrakte und leibliche Mittelwert zwischen Dingen, die nichts sind, da ich ebenfalls nichts bin. Welche Unruhe, wenn ich fühle, welch Unbehagen, wenn ich denke, welche Nutzlosigkeit, wenn ich will!

Ich bin es müde, geträumt zu haben, freilich nicht müde zu träumen.

Para realizar um sonho é preciso esquecê-lo, distrair dele a atenção. Por isso realizar é não realizar.

At other times I wake up from the half sleep I'd fallen into, and hazy images with poetical and unpredictable colours play out their silent show to my inattention.