Quotes About Dreams

Time, since that day has remained still. And I've dreamt of you and the sky, since that day...

I escape into sleep. Sleep is what I'll miss most when I die.

Holding someone's hand was always my idea of joy. Often before falling asleep - in that small struggle not to lose consciousness and enter the greater world - often, before having the courage to go toward the greatness of sleep, I pretend that someone is holding my hand and I go, go toward the enormous absence of form that is sleep. And when even then I can't find the courage, then I dream.

Bow down, I am the emperor of dreams.

Bow down: I am the emperor of dreams; I crown me with the million-colored sun Of secret worlds incredible, and take Their trailing skies for vestment when I soar, Throned on the mounting zenith, and illume The spaceward-flown horizons infinite.

the colour of my soul is iron-grey and sad bats wheel about the steeple of my dreams.

Broken dreams are bad enough. But the dream that has no hope … the dream that is doomed long before it's broken, that's the worst of all.

One way to ruin your life is to have dreams bigger than your abilities.

I dreamt a limitless book, A book unbound, Its leaves scattered in fantastic abundance On every line there was a new horizon drawn, New heavens supposed; New states, new souls.

It is great good health to believe as the Hindus do that there are 33 million gods and goddesses in the world. It is great good health to want to understand one s dreams. It is great good health to desire the ambiguous and paradoxical. It is sickness of the profoundest kind to believe that there is one reality. There is sickness in any piece of work or any piece of art seriously attempting to suggest that the idea that there is more than one reality is somehow redundant.

I dreamed a limitless book, A book unbound, Its leaves scattered in fantastic abundance. On every line there was a new horizon drawn, New heavens supposed; New states, new souls. One of those souls, Dozing through some imagined afternoon, Dreamed these words. And needing a hand to set them down, Made mine.

Leavening the flat bread of what we know, with the yeast of what we dream may come to pass.

I don't like to make a distinction between the writer and the painter , finally , because I do both things anyway . Everybody's dreaming and trying to put down their dreams in the way that their hand knows best . I feel as much a unity , as much comradeship , with painters as I do writers .

I really believe that there is an enormous appetite amongst readers for an originality of vision. In other words, be true to your own dreams and there will always be people who want to hear them.

My imagination is my polestar; I steer by that.

There was pain without hope of healing. There was life that refused to end, long after the mind had begged the body to cease. And worst, there were dreams come true.

When, finally, she did sleep, it was the slumber of a watcher and waiter. Light, and full of sighs.

To be able to fly ? To be smoke , or a wolf ;to know the night , and live in it forever ? That's not so bad . You call us monsters . But when you dream it's of flying , and changing , and living without death .

Dreams are doorways...If we but have the courage to step over the threshold.

I used to tell myself that," he said. "Day in, day out. Used to try and dream the agonies away. But you can't. Take it from me. You can't. They have to be endured.

And Quaid knew, meeting the clown's vacant stare through an air turned bloody, that there was worse in the world than dread. Worse than death itself. There was pain without hope of healing. There was life that refused to end, long after the mind had begged the body to cease. And worst, there were dreams come true.

and what constitutes the making of a true storyteller; someone who speaks directly to the reader's dreams with dreams of their own.

I don't plot or outline, though I may take a few notes here and there, instead I let my dream world fill up each night with a segment of the story. I do this without worrying about it, or trying to force it, and when I wake up the dream bag is full, and I can go to my writing desk, and dream all over the page.

He became aware (was it just his dream life, denied its span in sleepless nights, spreading into wakefulness?) of another world, hovering beyond or behind the facade of reality.