Quotes About Dreams

Los sueños son muy peligrosos: abrasan como el fuego y a veces nos consumen completamente.

De joven se sueña todo tipo de tonterías, Sayuri. Las esperanzas son como los adornos del pelo. De joven se pueden llevar demasiados. Pero cuando envejeces, tan solo uno ya te hace parecer tonta.

Veel van wat aanvankelijk alleen in de verbeelding bestaat, wordt werkelijkheid.

Later begreep ik dat er mensen bestaan die van het koesteren van dromen juist onrustig worden. Stel je toch voor dat iedereen zo dacht, dan zou er nergens meer gedanst worden.

paradise cannot be constructed out of concrete.

A thousand Dreams within me softly burn: From time to time my heart is like some oak Whose blood runs golden where a branch is torn.

Whatever one may say, the happiest moment of the happy man is the moment ... falling asleep, and the unhappiest moment of the unhappy that of his awaking

La vita e i sogni sono fogli di uno stesso libro. Leggerli in ordine è vivere, sfogliarli a caso è sognare.

Cuando oigo música, mi imaginación juega a menudo con la idea de que la vida de todos los hombres y la mía propia no son más que sueños de un espíritu eterno, buenos o malos sueños, de que cada muerte es un despertar.

Cuando oigo música, mi imaginación juega a menudo con la idea de que la vida de todos los hombres, y la mía propia, no son más que sueños de un espíritu eterno, buenos o malos; de que cada muerte es un despertar.

Life and dreams are leaves of the same book.

And when we look in through the windows, all we see are shadows. And when we try and listen, all we hear is a whispering. And we cannot understand the whispering, because our minds have been invaded by a war. A war that we have both won and lost. The very worst sort of war. A war that captures dreams and re-dreams them. A war that has made us adore our conquerors and despise ourselves.

Our sorrows will never be sad enough. Our joys never happy enough. Our dreams never big enough. Our lives never important enough. To matter.

There are other worlds. Other kinds of dreams. Dreams in which failure is feasible. Honourable. Sometimes even worth striving for. Worlds in which recognition is not the only barometer of brilliance or human worth.

Lose your dreams and you Will lose your mind.

There was no tour guide on hand to tell her that in Kashmir nightmares were promiscuous. They were unfaithful to their owners, they cartwheeled wantonly into other people's dreams, they acknowledged no precincts, they were the greatest ambush artists of all. No fortification, no fence-building could keep them in check. In Kashmir the only thing to do with nightmares was to embrace them like old friends and manage them like old enemies.

We're Prisoners of War," Chacko said. "Our dreams have been doctored. We belong nowhere. We sail unanchored on troubled seas. We may never be allowed ashore. Our sorrows will never be sad enough. Our joys never happy enough. Our dreams never big enough. Our lives never important enough. To matter.

A war that we have won and lost. The very worst sort of war. A war that captures dreams and re-dreams them. A war that has made us adore our conquerors and despise ourselves.

And we cannot understand the whispering, because our minds have been invaded by a war. A war that we have won and lost. The very worst sort of war. A war that captures dreams and re-dreams them. A war that has made us adore our conquerors and despise ourselves.

Career. Desire. Dream. Poetry. Love. Youth itself. Dying became just another way of living.

Somos prisioneiros de guerra, disse Chacko. Nossos sonhos foram manipulados. Não pertencemos a lugar nenhum. Navegamos sem âncora por mares turbulentos. Pode ser que nunca nos permitam desembarcar em terra. A tristeza de nossas tristezas nunca vai ser suficiente. Nem a alegria da nossa felicidade, nem o tamanho de nossos sonhos. Nossas vidas nunca terão importância suficiente para serem levadas em conta.

It is after all so easy to shatter a story. To break a chain of thought. To ruin a fragment of a dream being carried around carefully like a piece of porcelain

It was a kiss that demanded no kiss-back. Not a cloudy kiss full of questions that wanted answers. Like the kisses of cheerful one-armed men in dreams.

There was no tour guide on hand to tell her that in Kashmir nightmares were promiscuous. That they were unfaithful to their owners, they cartwheeled wantonly into other people's dreams, they acknowledged no precincts, they were the greatest ambush artists of all. No fortification, no fence-building could keep them in check. In Kashmir the only thing to do with nightmares was to embrace them like old friends and manage them like old enemies.