Dream Quotes - Page 335

Did you dream of me?" he asked. "Yes," she admitted grudgingly. She had. She'd dreamed of his hands caressing her, of his mouth devouring her. His lush lips inched into a surprised but pleased smile. "You were naked," she told him. His grin spread; his eyes gleamed with satisfaction. "And tied up..." He arched his eye brows in smug expectation. "I did not know the idea of bondage would please you." "Oh, I love the idea of typing you up." She paused dramatically. "Just like in my dream, you'll be secured to an ant-hill and the little things will eat you alive.

Do not breathing in the chronological, do not dream of the later, drain the intellect on the bring about twinkling.

I am a dreamer of words, of written words. I think I am reading; a word stops me. I leave the page. The syllables of the word begin to move around. Stressed accents begin to invert. The word abandons its meaning like an overload which is too heavy and prevents dreaming. Then words take on other meanings as if they had the right to be young. And the words wander away, looking in the nooks and crannies of vocabulary for new company, bad company.

In contrast to a dream a reverie cannot be recounted. To be communicated, it must be written, written with emotion and taste, being relived all the more strongly because it is being written down. Here, we are touching the realm of written love. It is going out of fashion, but the benefits remain. There are still souls for whom love is the contact of two poetries, the fusion of two reveries.

True poetry is a function of awakening. It awakens us, but it must retain the memory of previous dreams.

The dream remains overloaded with the badly lived passions of daytime life. Solitude in the nocturnal dream is always a hostility. It is strange. It isn't really our solitude.

The night dreamer cannot articulate a cogito. The night dream is a dream without a dreamer.

I have been a Manchester United fan all my life and fulfilled every dream I've ever had. I am disappointed that my playing days are at an end. However, it comes to us all and it's knowing when that time is and for me that time is now.

While we're living the dreams we have as children fade away'. Not if you support United!

I'll always be grateful for the dream season of 1986. In a corner of my mind I will stand forever with my bat cocked, waiting for the two-one pitch from Calvin Schiraldi.

I love Françoise Hardy. She's my dream, she's just amazing.

Actions are sometimes performed in a masterly and most cunning way, while the direction of the actions is deranged and dependent on various morbid impressions - it's like a dream.

Inventions reached their limit long ago, and I see no hope for further development.

The dream is short, repentance long.

As refined fare serves a hungry man as well as and no better than coarser food, the more pretentious artist will not dream of inviting the hungry man to his meal.

Like Adam, we have all lost Paradise; and yet we carry Paradise around inside of us in the form of a longing for, almost a memory of, a blessedness that is no more, or the dream of a blessedness that may someday be again.

Children leave. And parents stay behind. Still, some things are deeper than time and distance. And your father will always be your father. And he will always leave a light on for you.

What's happened to me,' he thought. It was no dream.

I have precognitive dreams such as the year my brother's apartment caught fire and he lost everything. I'd dreamt it two months before. Alas, though I warned him, it still happened. Thankfully no one was harmed. I also read Tarot cards, mostly for fun.

The secular humanist, although he would never dream of committing the social faux pas of calling a black man a negro, feels perfectly free to castigate Christians and their leaders in any way he likes.

Baseball was a dream I gathered more splinters than hits.

If I sit and daydream, the images rush by like a succession of colored slides.

It's not that I literally think I'm a fearie. It's just that I feel so different from most people. And this idea of a race living underground in caverns, spending all their days dancing and playing the fiddle and eating flowers and reciting poetry and sharing their dreams, that to me sounds much more real than the way people live in this world, hating and fighting and wanting and hurting.

We have ... dreamed so much and observed so little, that our imaginations have grown larger than the world we live in, and our judgments have dwindled down to a point.

Call me names, dearest! Call me thy bird That flies to thy breast at one cherishing word, That folds its wild wings there, ne'er dreaming of flight, That tenderly sings there in loving delight! Oh! my sad heart keeps pining for one fond word,-- Call me pet names, dearest! Call me thy bird!