All human beings are also dream beings. Dreaming ties all mankind together.
Dreaming permits each and every one of us to be quietly and safely insane every night of our lives.
One can write, think, and pray exclusively of others; dreams are all egocentric.
People who insist on telling their dreams are among the terrors of the breakfast table.
Just a week before he was assassinated, Abraham Lincoln had a dream that he discussed with several people. It seemed that he was walking through the silent White House toward the sound of sobbing. When he entered the East Room, he was confronted by the sight of a catafalque covered in black. He asked the guard on duty there who was dead. “The president,” said the soldier.
I don’t use drugs; my dreams are frightening enough.
In forming a bridge between body and mind, dreams may be used as a springboard from which man can leap to new realms of experience lying outside his normal state of consciousness and enlarge his vision not only of himself, but also of the universe in which he lives.
Was it only by dreaming or writing that I could find out what I thought?
I was trying to daydream, but my mind kept wandering.
Dreaming is an act of pure imagination, attesting in all men a creative power, which, if it were available in waking, would make every man a Dante or a Shakespeare.
Myths are public dreams, dreams are private myths.
Recall the old story of the rather refined young man who preferred sex dreams to visiting brothels because he met a much nicer type of girl that way.
I do not understand the capricious lewdness of the sleeping mind.
All the things one has forgotten scream for help in dreams.
I believe that dreams transport us through the underside of our days, and that if we wish to become acquainted with the dark side of what we are, the signposts are there, waiting for us to translate them.
Dream research is a wonderful field. All you do is sleep for a living.
A dream that is not interpreted is like a letter that is not read.
Some colors exist in dreams that are not present in the waking spectrum.
Dream is not a revelation. If a dream affords the dreamer some light on himself, it is not the person with closed eyes who makes the discovery but the person with open eyes, lucid enough to fit thoughts together. Dream — a scintillating mirage surrounded by shadows — is essentially poetry.
I dream my painting, and then I paint my dream.
You know that there’s a whole underground system that you call “dreams,” having nothing better to call them, and that this system is not like roads or tunnels but more like a live body network, all coiling and stretching, unpredictable but finally familiar — where you are now, where you’ve always been.
When I dream, I am always ageless.
