Best 4990 quotes in «dreams quotes» category

Amory, sorry for them, was still not sorry for himself - art, politics, religion, whatever his medium should be, he knew he was safe now, free from all hysteria - he could accept what was acceptable, roam, grow, rebel, sleep deep through many nights... There was no God in his heart, he knew; his ideas were still in riot; there was ever the pain of memory; the regret for his lost youth - yet the waters of disillusion had left a deposit on his soul, responsibility and a love of life, the faint stirring of old ambitions and unrealized dreams... And he could not tell why the struggle was worth while, why he had determined to use to the utmost himself and his heritage from the personalities he had passed... He stretched out his arms to the crystalline, radiant sky. "I know myself," he cried, "but that is all.

A morning later, Nancy described her first dream, the first remembered dream of her life. She and Judy Thorne were on a screened porch, catching ladybugs. Judy caught one with one spot on its back and showed it to Nancy. Nancy caught one with two spots and showed it to Judy. Then Judy caught one with three spots and Nancy one with four. Because (the child explained) the dots showed how old the ladybugs were. She told this dream to her mother, who had her repeat it to her father at breakfast. Piet was moved, beholding his daughter launched intoanother dimension of life. Like school. He was touched by her tiny stock of imagery the screened porch (neither they nor the Thornes had one; who?), the ladybugs (with turtles the most toylike of creatures), the mysterious power of numbers, that generates space and time. Piet saw down a long amplifying corridor of her dreams, and wanted to hear her tell them, to grow older with her, to shelter her forever.” John Updike, Couples, 1968.

An alder tree can't become an oak at will. A maple can't pick up its roots like legs, and stride, step by powerful step, along the shore to find the sun. And everything that ever said otherwise--all those years of school, and the plays and moving pictures that promise you can be someone else, something more--they were all lies.

A mystic is one who has dropped all dreams, who has thrown away this mirror of the mind and who looks directly into life, without any medium interfering. Then he sees the eternal progression, then in a single moment he sees all eternity, and in a single atom he can see the whole reflected.

& may you shine on in the sky with diamonds & dreams...do it for the suit behind the platform, who only wished he were free. have strength in freedom.

Analysis paralysis is an epidemic that cripples countless dreams and great ideas. Be swift, decisive, and always move forward!

- an ant's dream's funnier than ours - he has more of them faster and seems to give less of a shit -

An Author is forced by his Life's misery,to Live or Die in his Dreams,for every sad verse he writes,by breaking his Heart's Melodious strings, in need of sympathy.

and dreaming is very pleasant as long as you are not forced to put your dreams into practice. That way, we avoid all the risks, frustrations and difficulties, and when we are old, we can always blame other people-preferably our parents, our spouses or our children-for our failure to realize our dreams.

And even though it was just one hug, it was enough to lift more dark.

And eventually in that house where everyone, even the fugitive hiding in the cellar from his faceless enemies, finds his tongue cleaving dryly to the roof of his mouth, where even the sons of the house have to go into the cornfield with the rickshaw boy to joke about whores and compare the length of their members and whisper furtively about dreams of being film directors (Hanif's dream, which horrifies his dream-invading mother, who believes the cinema to be an extension of the brothel business), where life has been transmuted into grotesquery by the irruption into it of history, eventually in the murkiness of the underworld he cannot help himself, he finds his eyes straying upwards, up along delicate sandals and baggy pajamas and past loose kurta and above the dupatta, the cloth of modesty, until eyes meet eyes, and then

And here we are. Selling our dreams, to someone else and getting paid for it with the counterfeit. Which we would keep safe all our life, in the hope of using it to buy the dreams of others, in the future again.

And I dreamed of a home long ago in New England, my little kitkats trying to go a thousand miles following me on the road across America, and my mother with a pack on her back, and my father running after the ephemeral uncatchable train, and I dreamed and woke up to a gray dawn, saw it, sniffed (because I had seen all the horizon shift as if a sceneshifter had hurried to put it back in place and make me believe in its reality), and went back to sleep, turning over. "It's all the same thing," I heard my voice say in the void that's highly embraceable during sleep.

. . . and he knew that our dreams are none the less terrible to lose, because they have never been the realities for which we have mistaken them.

And I go out at six in the morning and start my search for you. If I've dreamt a message of a street or a pub or a station I go there. And I wait for you.

And in that moment he realised that even though the dreams they’d seen together, hoped for and believed in had come true, it wasn’t enough. It was far from reality which was lonesome and woeful. And conceived that love had no lastingness, it was brief and momentary. It wasn’t the cherishable sensation spoken of in movies and written in books, rather a delusion inclined on ruining the very spirit, giving way to mournfulness and disappointment.

And I stood there for a while in my sighing senselessness, waiting for her to make like a gorgeous flower and kiss me or something.

And in my novels I live many lives. Substitutes of spontaneity to replace a dreary reality. How I live for those inky black words and kaleidoscope colored experiences.

And I think the city fell madly in love with her just then.

... and it was quite a sad thing, the way I watched you sleep like nothing could go wrong and I did not want to harm it, I did not want to blur it, but how could I not when everything I’ve ever known has slowly gone away and I know by now that that’s the way you let the new day in with new roads and views and chances to grow but it was quite a sad thing because I don’t want this to ever become ’then’ or ’was’ and it was quite an unfamiliar thing. The way I took off my shoes again, put down my bag and quietly went back to bed, slowly between the sheets of moments I don’t want to leave and it was quite a beautiful thing the way you had no idea but still must have known because you did not even open your eyes, but turned around and took my hand and you were still asleep, breathing in and out like nothing could go wrong, but still held my hand like you were glad I didn’t leave. ’Thank you for staying’ and it was quite a wonderful thing, the way I smiled and so did you, sound asleep, and that’s all I need to know for now. That’s all I want to know for now.

And anyway, once you allowed yourself to picture such a scenario, it couldn't happen. That was just the way life went.

And maybe what growing up really means is knowing that you don't have to just be a character, going whichever way the story says, it's knowing that you could be the autor instead.

And speaking of options ,these kids [the ones who attend elite universities] have all been told that theirs are limitless. Once you commit to something, though, that ceases to be true. A former student sent me an essay he wrote, a few years after college, called "The Paradox of Potential." Yale students, he said, are like stem cells. They can be anything in the world, so they try to delay for as long as possible the moment when they have to become just one thing in particular. Possibility, paradoxically, becomes limitation.

and sleeping put an end to summer, 1928,

And am I there?' 'Always. I'd say, always. You're everywhere, in all the dreams. Sometimes it's your face I dream, but not you. Not your personality, not you at all except for the face. And sometimes I know it's you, definitely you, but your face is a blur—or you're not a person, but a dog or—

And once the ripples still and the water returns to its unwavering calm, even the pebble that broke its surface will be forgotten. And the world will go on.

And that’s when I knew she was not doing this on purpose; that her stories came from a place deep within her, beyond thought and formal language.

And the dreams so rich in color. How else would death call you? Waking in the cold dawn it all turned to ash instantly.

And the pebbles fight each other as rocks/And my father bends among them/Two hands outstretching up to me/Not that I can hear.

And much like the despairity of the woman who can never bear children, my dreams can never bear fruit. They are the mountains I can never climb. The hurdles I can never leap. The seas I can never cross. The skies I can never look up to. Yet, I adopt them. Unblemished. Guilt-free.

And then I walked out, straight through the twilight, treading the beaten earth. There were no dust clouds, no signs of anyone, but I paid no mind. I was my own lucky hand of solitaire. The desert landscape unchanging: a long, unwinding scroll that I would one day amuse myself by filling. I'm going to remember everything and then I'm going to write it all down. An aria to a coat. A requiem for a café. That's what I was thinking, in my dream, looking down at my hands.

And then when she met the man of her dreams, she didn't know which face to show.

And though they fell as ashes, their shadows drifted as leaves.

And they danced with laughter and tears. They swung each other round and round, the first and last time in years.

And the man who dreamt of flight has tripped and fallen in a hole.

And while he compared all these things which he was seeing with his eyes to the mental pictures he had painted of them in his homesickness, it became clear to him that he was, after all, destined to be a poet, and he saw that in poets' dreams reside a beauty and enchantment that one seeks in vain in the things of the real world.

And yet their reward appear not, and their labor had no fruit: for I have gone here and there through the heathen, and I see that they flow in wealth, and think not upon thy commandments.

... and you might say “no, you will never do that, that’s not you, not who I know, not who I thought you were” and I will say “watch me” for I never did this to fit in or stand out but to live.

And you must not worry about me. You must follow your dreams. You have your life ahead of you. I am just a wanderer passing by.

An entrepreneur is born, when a person has more reasons to drive his dreams against his excuses.

An entire nation shook under the power of one man’s [MLK’s] dream! Now if one dream can do that for our nation, imagine what a dream can do for the Church.

An entrepreneur is a broker between ideas and resources. This is not confined to business; it is at least as much at home in academia. Faculty members write their dreams of undiscovered truths in research proposals addressed persuasively to foundations and government agencies.

A New Year is like a new day; with fullness of sacred grace to fulfill the God-given dreams.

An extreme fearfulness moves through all your body, and your mind is troubled more.

An eyelid is twitching. From the open mouth gushes silence. The cities of Europe mount each other at railroad stations. A pleasant odor of soap tells the jungle dweller of the approaching foe. Wherever you set your sole or toe, the world map develops blank spots, grows balder.

Angela turned in her chair. Resting her chin on folded hands, the mirror reflected the look of a girl in love. ‘Oh, what a blessing fate has bestowed on me.

A New Year brings new grace for new accomplishments.

An "eye" on the vision is more important than an "I" on the vision.

Anger will always stand in the way of your dreams. Don't let anyone take your dreams.

An individual can’t create anything itself. All of our dreams come true with the cooperation and co-creation of other souls.