Quotes About Dreams

Drifting out of the black sky, it was a far-carrying and haunting cry. The first hairy man who heard that sound had tilted his head to search out its source, and it has touched a sensitive chord in human beings ever since. It was the voice of freedom unlimited, the incarnation of nature itself, the sound and song of fond dreams: the cry of the northbound wild geese.

Grown-ups are always more fascinated by what you might become then what you are.

Grown-ups are always more fascinated by what you might become than by what you are.

What I never expected is how much nothing there is afterwords. In life,, he was not nearby. Now he is everywhere I dream and every place I wake. Or if not him exactly, then a nothing so much like him I cannot seem to wish it goodnight.

Give me songs to sing and emerald dreams to dream and I'll give you love unfolding.

Sleep is an under-ocean dipped into each night.

Love is a dream. Dreams are good, but do not be surprised if you wake up in tears.

Dreams are at once fruit and outcry against an atrophy of the senses..

Sector 7 by David Wiesner (Clarion, 1997)

Well, she's walking through the clouds, with a circus mind that's running wild.

May I whisper in your ear from my heart so you'll clearly hear. There are people so dear… They're like children… Naked in a cold world… Beautiful children In an old world. May I take you away from the evils of today to the dreams of tomorrow? You know that Heaven has no sorrow. We know that Heaven has no tomorrow. Hear the sound of the magic drums… Hearts are beating for the Sun, Sending Evil on the run. Now watch the wind…

Fiction, when it's done right, does in the daylight what dreams do at night: we leave the confines of our own experiences and go to common ground, where for a time we are not alone. Where we don't have to ask how it feels, because we feel it for ourselves.

Did mothers always try to press unto their daughters the itineraries of which they themselves had dreamed. Did I?

It had seemed this past month as if they were all one, that her life had been a single sexual encounter, one dreamed fuck, no beginnings or endings, no point beyond itself.

I used to tell John my dreams, not to understand them but to get rid of them, clear my mind for the day.

In her half sleep the point was ten, the jackpot was on eighteen, the only man that could ever reach her was the son of a preacher man, someone was down sixty, someone was up, Daddy wants a popper and she rode a painted pony let the spinning wheel spin.

Who is the director of dreams, would he care? Was it only by dreaming or writing that I could find out what I thought?

Only the very young and the very old may recount their dreams at breakfast, dwell upon self, interrupt with memories of beach picnics and favorite Liberty lawn dresses and the rainbow trout in a creek near Colorado Springs. The rest of us are expected, rightly, to affect absorption in other people's favorite dresses, other people's trout.

Or was it even a dream? Who is the director of dreams, would he care? Was it only by dreaming or writing that I could find out what I thought.

A somnolence so dense it seemed to inhibit breathing…

Life with these people had the distorted logic of dreams, and Patricia Hearst seems to have accepted it with the wary acquiescence of the dreamer. Any face could turn against her. Any move could prove lethal.

when she drank she did not dream.

Nothing dreamed is ever lost, and nothing lost forever.

Anything that can be dreamed is true.