We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep.
Yet mad I am not…and very surely do I not dream.
Where all is but dream, reasoning and arguments are of no use, truth and knowledge nothing.
We must learn to reawaken and keep ourselves awake, not by mechanical aids, but by an infinite expectation of the dawn, which does not forsake us in our soundest sleep.
To me dreams are a part of nature, which harbors no intention to deceive, but expresses something as best it can.
To die, to sleep; To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come.
This is why dreams can be such dangerous things: they smolder on like a fire does, and sometimes consume us completely.
They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.
The thing is – fear can’t hurt you any more than a dream.
The interpretation of dreams is the royal road to a knowledge of the unconscious activities of the mind.
The dream is a series of images, which are apparently contradictory and nonsensical, but arise in reality from psychologic material which yields a clear meaning.
The dream arises from a part of the mind unknown to us, hut none the less important, and is concerned with the desires for the approaching day.
