Quotes About Dreams

The small children and the very old, with the stuff of life hardly yet grasped or perforce nearly relinquished, were protected and secure and could enjoy their dreams and illusions immune from the daily wear and tear. And how lucky they were!

Never again, she vowed, would she live a noisy life that killed her dreams. They were her reason for living, the only thing that she had to give to the world, and she must live in the way that suited them best.

There was a streak of austerity in him that welcomed hardship, and even, he imagined, was ready to welcome pain. It bred courage, it sifted the true from the false, and courage and truth were companions who would outpace all the others; when dreams had withered and happiness was forgotten they were still there. For their sakes he was prepared to suffer much himself and to see others suffer. Lucilla had been right to recognize in his face that night a hint of ruthlessness.

I dreamed of death the way previously I'd dreamed of the pain leaving me, and the way before that I'd dreamed of gardens and children and weekends away. Death was my elusive lover, treasured and longed for and jealously guarded, and always distant. Always out of reach.

I was once beautiful you know, I ran with feet that knew nothing of falling, and wished hopeless wishes on shooting stars that I knew would never come true.

I've got lots of ambitions, but I only ever think of them when I'm lying around in my undies having a snooze.

What good I thought I could do, all alone, against thousands of years of mistrust and the power of a Demonlord, I cannot now imagine: but such are the dreams of youth, too gloriously stupid to realise what cannot be done. And without those dreams, how should we ever accomplish the impossible?

such are the dreams of youth, too gloriously stupid to realise what cannot be done. And without those dreams, how should we ever accomplish the impossible?

Fears and hopes and dreams and sorrows all will dissolve like the fog they are, and what will be left is the light and warmth of my deepest self or soul or whatever it might be.

They--the books I mean, not the ladies of Technical Services, though maybe those ladies too--might have dreamed of a different life in a private home, beloved and displayed and well dressed and only occasionally, dreamily read, but they belonged to the city now and had to work for the common good.

While we're talking about my dreams, about how I'm gloomy and combative, and about displacing those feelings onto my pillow instead of my loved ones.

This library must be where dreams come to gather new stories. No one would call this a mere building; it was a kaleidoscope of wondrous sights. Even the sounds were magical, the murmurs of hundreds of secrets being shared. I stood at the entry for several minutes, just drinking in the amazing place.

His mouth whispered over hers, destroying her defences and rebuilding all her dreams.

Better to be like the falcon. Alone. Dependent on nothing but the air beneath her wings. At least for the falcon, the air had more substance than her foolish dreams of love.

I'd dressed up and hoped and I was so tired of doing that, so tired of dreaming and being unable to stop it despite the fact that I'd seen, maybe better than anyone here, what dreams could do to you.

It could be enough, maybe, or at least a start, but the problem is that at night I tumble into dreams that aren't dreams at all. I tumble into memories and wake up aching for a dying world and a quiet, cold life that offered me nothing but sitting in a still room.

I heard how people sounded when their dreams were shattered, when their lives were turned into a waking nightmare.

That happens in hotel rooms, people have bad dreams.

No wonder the film industry started in the desert in California where, like all desert dwellers, they dream their buildings, rather than design them.

The great dream merchant Disney was a success because make-believe was what everyone seemed to need in a spiritually empty land.

This is why dreams can be such dangerous things: they smolder on like a fire does, and sometimes they consume us completely.

If, indeed, there be any one circle of thought distinctly and palpably marked out from amid the jarring and tumultuous chaos of human intelligence, it is that evergreen and radiant Paradise which the true poet knows, and knows alone, as the limited realm of his authority—as the circumscribed Eden of his dreams.

Verdriet kan zo vertrouwd worden dat het je houvast geeft, maar ik geef het je te doen om overeind te blijven wanneer je enige droom in één klap uitkomt.

Het leven van een man die vliegen wil, bestaat vooral uit vallen