Quotes About Dreams

There were dreams once upon a time, dreams now all but forgotten. On sad days I dust them off and fondle them nostalgically, with a patronizing wonder at the naivete of the youth who dreamed them.

Books, I found, had the power to make time stand still, retreat or fly into the future.

I wanted to be a secret agent and an astronaut, preferably at the same time.

Children, the river is so beautiful. Come look at it…. It's a moving, breathing, living thing," he said reverently. "It gives life to our town. It is deep in secrets and rich in dreams, and if we could know those secrets and dreams, we'd be a wiser people.

Forgive me, that I manage badly, Manage badly but live gloriously, That I leave traces of myself in my songs, That I appeared to you in waking dreams.

I had feared to be presumptuous; of building up a fairyland out of dreams; of yielding to my imagination rather than to my good sense. And yet, deep down in some inner consciousness, a faint insidious hope had whispered to itself that if I showed myself worthy, perhaps-perhaps- And now perhaps had become reality, and all doubt and mistrust a vanished dream.

In books I have traveled, not only to other worlds, but into my own. I learned who I was and who I wanted to be, what I might aspire to, and what I might dare to dream about my world and myself.

It sounded so promising. As if this would be the day. The day to ride a bike without training wheels. To make it through the afternoon without a stained blouse and a scolding. To persuade the girl next door to like me. To meet a man. To make a mint. To prosper. To love. To live fearlessly.

As I explore the wilderness of my own body, I see that I am made of blood and bones, sunlight and water, pesticide residues and redwood humus, the fears and dreams of generations of ancestors, particles of exploded stars.

One night when I was pregnant with Henry, I lay in bed thinking for some reason, about Treasure Island. I realized that from the entire book there was only one sentence I remembered verbatim, something that Ben Gunn, who has been marooned for three years, says to Jim Hawkins: Many's the long night I've dreamed of cheese -- toasted mostly. I repeated the last two words over and over again, like a mantra. Toasted, mostly. Toasted mostly.

This is a photograph of me as I wish I looked all the time. Then I might have a chance of getting in Hollywood.

I want to see the world and do all kinds of exciting things, and a little money won't hurt.

Sleep makes the silence and the terrible fear go by more quickly, helps pass the time, since it's impossible to kill.

But I don't think building sand castles in the air is such a terrible thing to do, as long as you don't take it too seriously.

Why do I always think and dream the most awful things and want to scream in terror?

I simply can't imagine the world will ever be normal again for us. I do talk about "after the war," but it's as if I were talking about a castle in the air, something that can Ii never come true.

When I write I can shake off all my cares. My sorrow disappears, my spirits are revived! But, and that's a big question, will I ever be able to write something great, will I ever become a journalist or a writer?

For a long time now I didn't know why I was bothering to do any schoolwork. The end of the war still seemed so far away, so unreal, like a fairy tale.

Asta-i dificultatea timpului nostru: idealul, visele, speranÈ›ele frumoase nici nu apuc? s? apar? bine, È™i numaidecât sunt lovite de realitatea atroce È™i distruse cu totul.

It's difficult in times like these: ideals, dreams and cherished hopes rise within us, only to be crushed by grim reality.

I was learning the secrets of life: that you could become the woman you'd dared to dream of being, but to do so you were going to have to fall in love with your own crazy, ruined self.

You are lucky to be one of those people who wishes to build sand castles with words, who is willing to create a place where your imagination can wander.

I watched him carefully. He was making art because he has to, and because he's brave enough to try and make contact, right there on the edge of madness, where he dreams.

She slept deeply, but as usual, she did not dream. It had been months; none of them was dreaming anymore. [p. 227]