Quotes About Dreams

Every lover has love that he converts to future. (Chaque amoureux a l'amour - Qu'il convertit en futur.)

She realized then that time passes, but the imagination remains, even if it does not seem to exist. (Elle comprit alors que le temps passe, mais l'imagination reste, même si cela semble ne pas exister)"

The writer dreams awake. The killer nightmares awake. (L'écrivain rêve éveillé. Le tueur cauchemarde éveillé)

The town was glad with morning light; places that had shown ugly and distrustful all night long, now wore a smile; and sparkling sunbeams dancing on chamber windows, and twinkling through blind and curtain before sleepers' eyes, shed light even into dreams, and chased away the shadows of the night.

Dreams are the bright creatures of poem and legend, who sport on earth in the night season, and melt away in the first beam of the sun, which lights grim care and stern reality on their daily pilgrimage through the world.

Fairy-land to visit, but a desert to live in

the dreams of childhood - it's airy fables, its graceful, beautiful, humane, impossible adornments of the world beyond; so good to be believed in once, so good to be remembered when outgrown...

My father had left a small collection of books in a little room upstairs, to which I had access (for it adjoined my own) and which nobody else in our house ever troubled. From that blessed little room, Roderick Random, Peregrine Pickle, Humphrey Clinker, Tom Jones, the Vicar of Wakefield, Don Quixote, Gil Blas, and Robinson Crusoe, came out, a glorious host, to keep me company. They kept alive my fancy, and my hope of something beyond that place and time . . .

The dreams of childhood—its airy fables; its graceful, beautiful, humane, impossible adornments of the world beyond: so good to be believed-in once, so good to be remembered when outgrown, for the least among them rises to the stature of a great Charity in the heart, suffering the little children to come into the midst of it, and to keep with their pure hands a garden in the stony ways of this world

A boy's story is the best that is ever told.

No. I lay in my basket, and my mother lay in her bed; but Betsey Trotwood Copperfield was for ever in the land of dreams and shadows, the tremendous region whence I had so lately travelled; and the light upon the window of our room shone out upon the earthly bourne of all such travellers, and the mound above the ashes and the dust that once was he, without whom I had never been.

Martin took the same course, thinking as he went, that perhaps the free and independent citizens, who in their moral elevation, owned the colonel for their master, might render better homage to the goddess, Liberty, in nightly dreams upon the oven of a Russian Serf.

Now, I return to this young fellow. And the communication I have got to make is, that he has Great Expectations.

night is kinder in this respect than day, which too often destroys an air-built castle at the moment of its completion, without the least ceremony or remorse.

Sleep came upon me as it came on many other outcasts, against whom house-doors were locked, and house-dogs barked, that night—and I dreamed of lying on my old school-bed, talking to the boys in my room; and found myself sitting upright, with Steerforth's name upon my lips, looking wildly at the stars that were glistening and glimmering above me.

Y cuando paso por el viejo camino no me sorprendo, sólo lo compadezco, si veo andando delante de mí a un niño inocente y soñador que se crea un mundo imaginario de su extraña experiencia y sórdido vivir.

Ah, how I loved her! What happiness (I thought) if we were married, and were going away anywhere to live among the trees and in the fields, never growing older, never growing wiser, children ever, rambling hand in hand through sunshine and among flowery meadows, laying down our heads on moss at night, in a sweet sleep of purity and peace, and buried by the birds when we were dead!

can see back to very early days indeed, when my bad dreams—they were frightful, though my more mature understanding has never made out why—were of an interminable sort of ropemaking, with long minute filaments for strands, which, when they were spun home together close to my eyes, occasioned screaming.

How beautiful can life be? We hardly dare imagine it.

Our imagination is the only limit to what we can hope to have in the future.

I wonder if the falcon knows of his gift of grace. Does he ever just take upon wing for the pure joy of it. He seems only to fly with purpose. He cares not of my envy. Mocking me as he dances with angels. But in my dreams I soar with him among the clouds, the cool breeze on my face as we climb higher. Perhaps one day I will know when I'm in the presence of God. For surely he will grant me this that I've dreamed.

Some people never have anything except ideals.

Let your imagination take you wherever you want to be.

Sometimes imagination pounces; mostly it sleeps soundly in the corner, purring.