Best 69 quotes in «delirium quotes» category

Te voy a contar otro secreto, este es por tu propio bien. Puedes pensar que el pasado tiene algo que decirte. Puedes pensar que deberías escuchar, esforzarte por distinguir susurros, que deberías hacer lo imposible, inclinarte para escuchar la voz que murmura desde el suelo, desde los lugares muertos. Puede que pienses que ahí vas a encontrar algo, algo que comprender o a lo que encontrar un sentido. Pero yo sé la verdad. La conozco de las noches de frialdad. Sé que el pasado va a tirar de ti hacia abajo y hacia atrás, que te va a engañar con el susurro del viento y los gemidos de los arboles, que te va a impulsar a descifrar lo que no entiendes, a recomponer lo que estaba roto. No hay esperanza. El pasado no es más que una lastre. Se instala en tu interior como una piedra. Hazme caso. Si oyes que el pasado te habla, si sientes que tira de tu espalda y que te pasa por los dedos por la columna, lo mejor que puedes hacer, lo único, es correr

This is one symptom of the deliria no one ever tells you about: Apparently the disease turns you into a world-class liar.

There's that difficulty with delirium too: You see it raging in another person's eyes and then it flickers out. That's the most dangerous moment; it's impossible to see something that's so swiftly and suddenly swallowed you whole.

What's the name of the word for the precise moment when you realize that you've actually forgotten how it felt to make love to somebody you really liked a long time ago?

-Todo el mundo está dormido. Llevan años dormidos. Tu parecias... despierta - susurra. Cierra los ojos, los vuelve a abrir-. Estoy harto de dormir.

Things weren’t always as good as they are now. In school we learned that in the old days, the dark days, people didn’t realize how deadly a disease love was. For a long time they even viewed it as a good thing, something to be celebrated and pursued. Of course that’s one of the reasons it’s so dangerous: It affects your mind so that you cannot think clearly, or make rational decisions about your own well-being. (That’s symptom number twelve, listed in the amor deliria nervosa section of the twelfth edition of The Safety, Health, and Happiness Handbook, or The Book of Shhh, as we call it.) Instead people back then named other diseases—stress, heart disease, anxiety, depression, hypertension, insomnia, bipolar disorder—never realizing that these were, in fact, only symptoms that in the majority of cases could be traced back to the effects of amor deliria nervosa.

What's poetry?" I've never heard the word before, but I like the sound of it. It sounds elegant and easy, somehow, like a beautiful woman turning in a long dress.

When left to their own devices, people lie and keep secrets and change and disappear, some behind a different face or personality, some behind a dense early morning fog, beyond a cliff.

When sleep puts an end to delirium, it is a good symptom.

You want something and you wait and wait and feel like it's taking forever to come. Then it happens and it's over and all you want to do is curl back up in that moment before things changed.

You know the best thing about aeroplanes? Apart from the peanuts in the little silver bags, I mean. It's looking out of the windows at the clouds, and thinking, maybe I could go walking in there. Maybe it's a special place where everything's okay. Sometimes I do go walking in the clouds, but it's just cold and wet and empty. But when you look out of a plane it's a special world... and I like that.

With the same people who had never dreamed their way out of here.

A period of lewdness and shamelessness exists with the highest type of manic delirium.

By the plain form of my delirium I will blast the obstruction of every form around me into something barely called shadow. I sail. I swim to you. I know the water.

Art is created in a state of delirium. Anyting else is the restoration of monuments. Collectors are artist that do not have a home. they have to make one for themselves.

Amor deliria nervosa isn't a disease of love. It's a disease of selfishness.

Hearts are fragile things. That's why you have to be so careful.

If one has not heard Wagner at Bayreuth, one has heard nothing! Take lots of handkerchiefs because you will cry a great deal! Also take a sedative because you will be exalted to the point of delirium!

Hate isn’t the most dangerous thing, he’d said. Indifference is.

I feel an indescribable ecstasy and delirium in melting, as it were, into the system of being, in identifying myself with the whole of nature.

Democracies should be a delirium of choices - more options, not fewer; more avenues to travel, not fewer.

I know that the whole point—the only point—is to find the things that matter, and hold on to them, and fight for them, and refuse to let them go.

If any young man wants to be a true temperance man let him go and get the delirium tremens, that'll settle it.

More and more I find that in order to create effectively one has to consider delirium and, yes, organize it.

Life creates itself in delirium and is undone in ennui.

In the deepest slumber-no! In delirium-no! In a swoon-no! In death-no! even in the grave all is not lost.

Laughter can shake you from the delirium of grief

Delirium: You use that word so much. Responsibilities. Do you ever think about what that means? I mean, what does it mean to you? In your head? Dream: Well, I use it to refer that area of existence over which I exert a certain amount of control or influence. In my case, the realm and action of dreaming. Delirium: Hump. It's more than that. The things we do make echoes. S'pose, f'rinstance, you stop on a street corner and admire a brilliant fork of lightning--ZAP! Well for ages after people and things will stop on that very same corner, stare up at the sky. They wouldn't even know what they were looking for. Some of them might see a ghost bolt of lightning in the street. Some of them might even be killed by it. Our existence deforms the universe. THAT'S responsibility.

The past is nothing but a weight. It will build inside of you like a stone.

But what about me? I suffer, but still, I don’t live. I am x in an indeterminate equation. I am a sort of phantom in life who has lost all beginning and end, and who has even forgotten his own name. You are laughing- no, you are not laughing, you are angry again. You are forever angry, all you care about is intelligence, but I repeat again that I would give away all this superstellar life, all the ranks and honours, simply to be transformed into the soul of a merchant’s wife weighing eighteen stone and set candles at God’s shrine

Déjame decirte algo sobre morir: no es tan malo como dicen. Es traer de vuelta a la vida partes que hieren.

There is no art without intoxication. But I mean a mad intoxication! Let reason teeter! Delirium!

Amazingly, I can still see the stars: whole galaxies blooming from nothing - pink and purple suns, vast silver oceans, a thousand white moons.

Change. Change. Change. Change … change. Change. Chaaange. When you say words a lot they don't mean anything. Or maybe they don't mean anything anyway, and we just think they do.

Every day, streets papered with more and more for . Reward, reward, reward. Reward for information. If you see something, say something. A paper town, a paper world: paper rustling in the airm whispering to me, hissing out a message of posion and jealousy. If you know something, do something. I'm sorry, Lena.

Extiendo la mano y paso un dedo a lo largo de su clavícula, mi lugar favorito: como las siluetas de unas pequeñas alas.

En mi mente, yo estaba reviviendo toda mi vida de nuevo - lentamente, tomando mi tiempo. Retrasándolo. Porque sabía que, tarde o temprano, llegaría a ella. Y entonces... Bueno, ya había muerto una vez. No podría sobrevivir a esto, otra vez.

He had entered another imaginative world, one connected to the beginning of his life as a writer, to the Napoleonic world that had been a lifelong metaphor for the power of art, for the empire of his own creation He began to dictate notes for a new novel, "fragments of the book he imagines himself to be writing." As if he were now writing a novel of which his own altered consciousness was the dramatic center, he dictated a vision of himself as Napoleon and his own family as the Imperial Bonapartes....William and Alice he grasped with his regent hand, addressing his 'dear and most esteemed brother and sister.' To them, to whom he had granted countries, he now gave the responsibility of supervising the detailed plans he had created for 'the decoration of certain apartments, here of the Louvre and Tuileries, which you will find addressed in detail to artists and workment who take them in hand.' He was himself the 'imperial eagle.' Taking down the dictation, Theodora [his secretary] felt it to be almost more than she could bear. 'It is a heart-breaking thing to do, though, there is the extraordinary fact that his mind does retain the power to frame perfectly characteristic sentences.

Everything has taken on a strange, distant quality - the sounds of running and shouting outside get warped and weird like they're being filtered through water, and Alex looks miles away. I start to think I might be dreaming, or about to pass out. And then I decide I'm definitely dreaming, because as I'm watching, Alex starts peeling his shirt off over his head.

Estaba pensando en Lena. Por supuesto. Siempre estaba pensando en Lena.

His eyes are blazing with light, more light than all the lights in every city in the whole world, more light than we could ever invent if we had ten thousand billion years.

I don't know. I had to be something, didn't I?

I, for example, quiet plainly and simply insist upon annihilation for myself. “No,” they say, “you must go on living, for without you there would be nothing. If everything on earth were reasonable, nothing would ever happen. Without you there would be no events, and it is necessary that there should be events.” Well, and so on I drudge with unwilling heart so that there be events, and bring about unreason by command. People think toute cette comedie is something serious, all there unquestionable intelligence notwithstanding. There lies there tragedy. Well, and they suffer, of course, but … al the same they live, they live in reality, not in fantasy; for suffering is also life. Without suffering what pleasure would there be in it? Everything would turn into one single, endless church service: much holy soaring, but rather boring. Well, and I? I suffer, but even so I do not live. I am the “x” in an indeterminate equation. I am one of life’s ghosts, who has lost all the ends and the beginnings, and even at last forgotten what to call myself. You are laughing . . . No, you are not laughing, you are angry again. You are eternally angry, you would like there to be nothing but intelligence, but I will tell you again that I would renounce all this empyrean existence, all these honours and ranks just in order to be able to take fleshy form in the person of a seven-pood merchant’s wife and set up candles to God in church. ‘So, you don’t believe in God either?’ Ivan said, smiling with hatred. ‘Well, how can I explain it to you, if you are serious, that is . . . ‘ ‘Does God exist or not?’ Ivan barked, again with ferocious insistence. ‘Ah, so you are serious? My dear little dove, I swear to God I do not know, pour vous dire le grand mot.

If it's all been dream and delirium may death ripen me in my dream.

I like you. You don't know me. I want to, though.

I miss the flowers; more than anything else I miss the flowers,’ she mused. And sought after them even in the paintings which we brought from the shops and the galleries, magnificent canvases such as I'd never seen in New Orleans-from the classically executed lifelike bouquets, tempting you to reach for the petals that fell on a three-dimensional tablecloth, to a new and disturbing style in which the colors seemed to blaze with such intensity they destroyed the old lines, the old solidity, to make a vision like to those states when I'm nearest my delirium and flowers grow before my eyes and crackle like the flames of lamps. Paris flowed into these rooms.

I know that life isn’t life if you just float through it.

Is there a word for forgetting the name of someone when you want to introduce them to someone else at the same time you realize you've forgotten the name of the person you're introducing them to as well?" "No.

I'd rather die on my own terms than live on theirs.

In the back of your hypnotic mind Hidden behind your fears Lost between your dreams … Bewitched by the scent of your soul Lured in the ash of your fate … Hanged in the delirium of your whispers Graced by your immortal beauty within … Agonized in your chaotic universe Vanished in your far away sights … Deceived in your fanatical passion Injured by the perfection of your brain … Denuded of fears in front of your judging Kidnapped by your timeless appearance...to the end of love (fragments from I'll be there, chapter Passion)