Life was to these a dream fulfilled, And death a starry night.
Life is a dream, and everyone wakes eventually.
Life is a dream from which we all must wake before we can dream again.
It’s the possibility of having a dream come true that makes life interesting.
It is like those beautiful dreams, which, on awaking, leave you nothing but the regret of having believed in them.[Il en est comme de ces beaux songes qui ne vous laissent au réveil que le déplaisir de les avoir crus.]
It has been said of dreams that they are a “controlled psychosis,” or, put another way, a psychosis is a dream breaking through during waking hours.
It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live.
In dreams you don’t need to make any distinctions between things. Not at all. Boundaries don’t exist. So in dreams there are hardly ever collisions. Even if there are, they don’t hurt. Reality is different. Reality bites.
In dreams the truth is learned that all good works are done in the absence of a caress.
If a little day-dreaming is dangerous, the cure for it is not to dream less but to dream more, to dream all the time.[Si un peu de rêve est dangereux, ce qui en guérit, ce n’est pas moins de rêve, mais plus de rêve, mais tout le rêve.]
I dream. Sometimes I think that’s the only right thing to do.
His dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He did not know that it was already behind him.
