Quotes About Dreams

The goblins want girls who dream so hard about being pretty their yearning leaves a palpable trail, a scent goblins can follow like sharks on a soft bloom of blood. The girls with hungry eyes who pray each night to wake up as someone else. Urgent, unkissed, wishful girls. Like Kizzy.

There were no books to hide behind, and no shadows—only Lazlo Strange in his worn gray robes, with his nose that had been broken by fairy tales, looking like the hero of no story ever told. Or. No story yet told.

Well, I'm no alchemist," Lazlo said, affable. "You know me, Strange the dreamer, head in the clouds." He paused and added with a grin, "Miracles for breakfast.

That faeries have forgotten the Tapestry; that is the greatest tragedy of all. It's the fabric of all creation and it's woven of dreams, the dreams of the Djinn. Dreams are real, Magpie. They're seed and water and sun. They're everything.

And I suppose all the wishes come true," Minya said, sarcastic. "Of course not, silly girl," Suheyla retorted. She had not grown up in an era of optimism, but that didn't mean they'd lived without dreams. "Wishes don't just come true. They're only the target you paint around what you want. You still have to hit the bull's-eye yourself.

Las almas muertas solo sueñan con la muerte —dijo el resucitador al emperador—. Los sueños insignificantes son para los hombres insginificantes. La vida es la que se expande para llenar los mundos.

My head feels like a snow globe that's been shaken, and glitter is swirling around in it like unmoored stars.

Strange the dreamer was an artist, too, and he was the antidote to vile.

N)ew dreams sprout up when old ones come true, like seedlings in a forest: a new generation of wishes.

Have I told you that the moment I first stepped into your dreams I knew there was something special about you?

All evening long, real snow would fall from the ceiling to glitter on the lashes of dancing girls and ardent boys, but Neve and the Dreamer didn't linger. They had other things to do: *all* of them. All the things, dreamed and undreamed, in the depth and breadth of the whole spinning world.

The goddess of dreams, she thought, if there were such a person, would wear gossamer and moonlight. No sooner did she think it than she was it. Her skin let off a subtle glow. Her dress floated like evaporating mist, and a corona of stars and fireflies perched on her red-brown hair.

Without his books, Lazlo felt as though a vital link to his dream had been cut.

Every night she bore witness to what she could never have. It wasn't living. It was torture.

Plants...dreamed they were birds...and they found rich soil and sweet seas and plants that dreamed they were birds and drifted up to the clouds on leaves like wings.

He pulled free of Ruza and turned to face it, but still he hesitated. "My boy," he heard in his mind - old Master Hyrrokkin's words, kindly meant. "I hardly think he's recruiting librarians, boy." And always, there was Thyon Nero's voice. "Enlighten me, Strange. In what version of the would could you possibly help? What version of the world? The dream version, in which he could do anything, even fly. Even reshape mesarthium. Even hold Sarai in his arms.

She looked across the street at herself—as seen, remembered, and conjured by the dreamer—and she didn't see obscenity, or calamity, or godspawn. She saw a proud, smiling girl with beautiful blue skin. Because that was what he saw, and this was his mind.

Dream up something wild and improbable.

Strange the dreamer - library stowaway and scholar of fairy tales - had never been thirstier, or more full of wonder.

Such were the humble beginnings of the end of the world: the absence of dreams.

It wasn't simply a question of parlors and tea trays - though there was that, too. If she were coming in reality he would be limited by reality. But dreams were a different matter. He was Strange the Dreamer. This was his realm, and there were no limits here.

Wishes, for example, for things like itches.

like any dreamer, at the mercy of her unconscious. When she fell asleep, she was no sorceress or dark enthraller, but just a sleeping girl with no control over the terrors within her.

What she had shared with Akiva could not be touched by shame. Madrigal lifted her voice to say, "We dreamed together of the world remade.