欧宝娱乐

“Reverie is when ideas float in our mind without reflection or regard of the understanding.”
― John Locke

“...the solitude was intoxicating. On my first night there I lay on my back on the sticky carpet for hours, in the murky orange pool of city glow coming through the window, smelling heady curry spices spiraling across the corridor and listening to two guys outside yelling at each other in Russian and someone practicing stormy flamboyant violin somewhere, and slowly realizing that there was not a single person in the world who could see me or ask me what I was doing or tell me to do anything else, and I felt as if at any moment the bedsit might detach itself from the buildings like a luminous soap bubble and drift off into the night, bobbing gently above the rooftops and the river and the stars.”
― Tana French, In the Woods

“All knights must bleed, Jaime," Ser Arthur Dayne had said, when he saw. "Blood is the seal of our devotion." With dawn he tapped him on the shoulder; the pale blade was so sharp that even that light touch cut through Jaime's tunic, so he bled anew. He never felt it. A boy knelt; a knight rose. The Young Lion, not the Kingslayer.
But that was long ago, and the boy was dead.”
― George R.R. Martin, A Feast for Crows

“What a space between men their spiritual natures create! A girl鈥檚 reverie isolates her from me, and how shall I enter it? What can one know of a girl that passes, slow steps homeward, out of thoughts, she can form an empire, locked up in her language, in the singing echoes of her memory. Born yesterday of the volcanoes, of greenswards, of brine of the sea, she walks here already half divine.”
― Antoine de Saint-Exup茅ry, Wind, Sand and Stars

“There are still souls for whom love is the contact of two poetries, the fusion of two reveries. The epistolary novel expresses love in a beautiful emulation of images and metaphors. To tell a love, one must write. One never writes too much. How many lovers, upon returning home from the tenderest of rendezvous, open their writing desks! Love is never finished expressing itself, and it expresses itself better the more poetically it is dreamed. The reveries of two solitary souls prepare the sweetness of loving. A realist passion will see nothing there but evanescent formulas. But just the same it is no less true that great passions are prepared by great reveries. The reality of love is mutilated when it is detached from all its unrealness.”
― Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Reverie: Childhood, Language, and the Cosmos

“I let myself drift, as to the depth of an ocean, to the depths of a dismal neighborhood of had and opaque but rather light houses, to the inner gaze of memory, for the matter of memory is porous”
― Jean Genet, Our Lady of the Flowers

“Reverie is not a mind vacuum. It is rather the gift of an hour which knows the plenitude of the soul.”
― Gaston Bachelard

“Reverie allows us to imagine other possibilities than those which lie immediately before us, other worlds than those we inhabit.”
― Chris Fleming, On Drugs

“Tea stirs poetic feeling and inspires gentle reverie”
― Henri Mariage

“Here, brush this old hair aside; it blinds me, that I seem to weep. Locks so grey did never grow but from out some ashes! But do I look very old, so very, very old, Starbuck? I feel deadly faint, bowed, and humped, as though I were Adam, staggering beneath the piled centuries since Paradise.”
― Herman Melville, Moby-Dick or, The Whale

“I want to shine light in the dark corners in this world, I want people to know that they are not alone.”
― Reverie Love

“If you love books, I will give you some to take with you, and one day I will introduce you to the writers of the books.”
― Gloria Whelan, Listening for Lions

“I let myself drift, as to the depth of an ocean, to the depths of a dismal neighborhood of hard and opaque but rather light houses, to the inner gaze of memory, for the matter of memory is porous.”
― Jean Genet

“le reve est l'aquarium de la nuit.”
― Victor Hugo, The Toilers of the Sea

“When I reached my own study, I sat down by a blazing fire...I soon fell into a dreamy state (which a few mistake for thinking, because it is the nearest approach they ever make to it) and in this reverie I kept staring about my bookshelves. I am vey fond of books. Do not mistake me. I do not mean that I love reading. I hope I do. That is no fault--a virtue rather than a fault. But, as the old meaning of the word "fond" was foolish, I use that word: I am foolishly fond of the bodies of books as distinguished from their souls. I do not say that I love their books as distinguished from their souls--I should not keep a book for which I felt no respect or had no use. But I delight in seeing books about me, books even of which there seems to be no prospect that I shall have to read a single chapter. I confess that if they are nicely bound, so as to glow and shine in a firelight, I like them ever so much the better. I suspect that by the time books (which ought to be loved for the truth that is in them) come to be loved as articles of furniture, the mind has gone through a process which the miser's mind goes through--that of passing from the respect of money because of what it can do, to the love of money because it is money. I have not yet reached the furniture stage, and I do not think I every shall. I would rather burn them all. Meantime, I think one safeguard is to encourage one's friends to borrow one's books.... That will probably take some of the shine off them, and put a few thumb-marks in them, which are very wholesome.
- from "Annals of a Quiet Neighbourhood, Ch. 11”
― George MacDonald, Annals of a Quiet Neighborhood

“In losing his past, he lost everything.”
― Ivan Turgenev, Fathers and Sons

“Why, thou monkey,鈥� said a harpooneer to one of these lads, 鈥渨e鈥檝e been cruising now hard upon three years, and thou hast not raised a whale yet. Whales are scarce as hen鈥檚 teeth whenever thou art up here.鈥� Perhaps they were; or perhaps there might have been shoals of them in the far horizon; but lulled into such an opium-like listlessness of vacant, unconscious reverie is this absent-minded youth by the blending cadence of waves with thoughts, that at last he loses his identity; takes the mystic ocean at his feet for the visible image of that deep, blue, bottomless soul, pervading mankind and nature; and every strange, half-seen, gliding, beautiful thing that eludes him; every dimly-discovered, uprising fin of some undiscernible form, seems to him the embodiment of those elusive thoughts that only people the soul by continually flitting through it.”
― Herman Melville, Moby Dick; Or, The Whale

“Floribert could neither sing nor recite these poems because they were without words, but he dreamed and felt them sometimes, especially in the evenings.”
― Hermann Hesse, The Fairy Tales of Hermann Hesse

“Hygge offers space for both reverie and relatedness. The heat of an open fire draws us close. Its shadow gives us a place to hide and softens our gaze.”
― Louisa Thomsen Brits, The Book of Hygge: The Danish Art of Living Well

“He saw my confusion and led me a slow, stately march to the library. There were shelves all the way around the room, and every shelf was crowed with books. I had not thought so many books existed.[...] There was a desk, several big leather chairs, a wooden floor covered with faded rugs, and in front of the fireplace a sofa with soft pillows. The shelves stopped several feet short of the ceiling, leaving room for a row of busts of what I imagined must be famous gentlemen. Lamps cast little pools light in the room, and the sound and smell of the fire reminded me of the fires the Kikuyu would make outside theirs huts when they roasted goats.”
― Gloria Whelan, Listening for Lions

“Thus we joined spirit with Joan Didion and Patti Smith and about a million other dreamers who, against all odds, had landed here, moving on fumes of reveries, to New York City.”
― Aspen Matis, Your Blue Is Not My Blue: A Missing Person Memoir

“One passes imperceptibly from one scene, one age, one life to another. Suddenly, walking down the street, be it real or be it a dream, one realizes for the first time that the years have flown, that all this has passed forever and will live on only in memory; and then the memory turns inward with a strange, clutching brilliance and one goes over these scenes and incidents perpetually, in dream and reverie, while walking a street, while lying with a woman, while reading a book, while talking to a stranger . . . suddenly, but always with terrific insistence and always with terrific accuracy, these memories intrude, rise up like ghosts and permeate every fiber of one's being. Hencefoward everything moves on shifting levels鈥攐ur thoughts, our dreams, our actions, our whole life. A parallelogram in which we drom from one platform of our scaffold to another. Henceforward we walk split into myriad fragments, like an insect witha hundred feet, a centipede with soft-stirring feet that drinks in the atmosphere; we walk with sensitive filaments that drink avidly of past and future, and all things melt into music and sorrow; we walk against a united world, asserting our dividedness. All things, as we walk, splitting with us into a myriad iridiscent fragments. The great fragmentation of maturity. The great change. In youth we were whole and the terror and pain of the world penetrated us through and through. There was no sharp separation between joy and sorrow: the fused into one, as our waking life fuses with dream and sleep. We rose one being in the morning and at night we went down into an ocean, drowned out completely, clutching the stars and the fever of the day.”
― Henry Miller, Black Spring

“Don't fill my day
With a reverie,
If you can't promise me
An unflappable slumber !!”
― Twinkle Tomar Singh

“As the dreamscape around me grows clearer, I slip further away from it. The mind is a magical thing, I鈥檓 discovering. A dreamscape is made of thought and is wider than the sky, able to grow large enough to fit not just our own world, but every possibility and impossibility beyond it. Once I quit thinking of it as being forced into the laws of physics, it鈥檚 easy to manipulate the dreamscape into anything I want. I don鈥檛 know how I know all this, no more than I understand how I know things when I dream. I just do.
I throw up my hand, and a wall rises between the orange grove and me. Behind the wall, I start creating the world I need in Representative Belles鈥檚 mind.”
― Beth Revis, The Body Electric

“I reached inside her and pulled out the deepest memories in her body, the memories that words can鈥檛 describe, the memories that are as much a piece of her as her arms and legs. Those are the ones she鈥檚 filled with now.”
― Beth Revis, The Body Electric

“Orice reverie e o iluzie, chiar dac膬 o dorim cu tot dinadinsul.”
― Octavian Paler, Via葲a pe un peron

“Then came such a melodious whistle, I looked about thinking that a bird had flown into the room.”
― Gloria Whelan, Listening for Lions

“There will be silence.”
― Paula Darnell, Death by Association: A DIY Diva Mystery

“Le 谤锚惫别 est l'aquarium de la nuit”
― Victor Hugo, Les Travailleurs De La Mer, II

“For a few moments, Edgar Wilson yields to the late afternoon sun that has not yet fully set, but that is rushing headlong into a moonless, starless night. He knows how to listen in silence, even when others are just sighing or snorting. Life in the country has made him like the ruminants, and being a cattleman, he is able to strike a perfect balance between the fears of irrational beings and the abominable reverie of those who dominate them. He sinks two fingers into the paint can and marks the foreheads of the four cornered cows.”
― Ana Paula Maia, Of Cattle and Men