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We often forget our dreams so speedily: if we cannot catch them as they are passing out at the door, we never set eyes on them again.
--
"On Dreams"

 

William Hazlitt

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The critic must be reconciled to his necessary, ambiguous role, and however much he may caper, joke, and posture for us in his writings, we are unlikely to forget that he is a man who may, at any moment, tread heavily upon our dreams — unworthy dreams, foolish dreams, stupid dreams, sometimes — but still dreams.

 

Robertson Davies

 

We forget to even see that there is something more than just us, that “we,” or “I,” an individual, is not the only thing in this whole universe. Your goodness, your badness, your deeds, what’s right for you and what’s wrong for you, and what’s beautiful and what’s not beautiful, what’s happy, what’s sad, and all these ideas--that’s not all. We forget that there is an incredible creation that surrounds us. And we have to open up to that creation. Obviously we want peace in our life. That’s what we’re trying to pursue. But there is this door and this door is locked. Without a key it will not open up. Beyond this door lies Knowledge. Beyond this door lies Love.

 

Maharaji (Prem Rawat)

 

If a player in the game of Deadman's Catch drops a skittle, he is obliged to suffer a succession of handicaps. First to catch using one hand, then to catch kneeling on one knee, then on two knees, then with one eye closed. If a player finally drops a catch with both eyes closed, then he is out and must take his place in the winding-sheet.

 

Peter Greenaway

 

If I should be, where I no more can hear
Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams
Of past existence, wilt thou then forget
That on the banks of this delightful stream
We stood together; And that I, so long
A worshipper of Nature, hither came,
Unwearied in that service: rather say
With warmer love, oh! with far deeper zeal
Of holier love. Now wilt thou then forget,
That after many wanderings, many years
Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs,
And this green pastoral landscape, were to me
More dear, both for themselves, and for thy sake.

 

William Wordsworth

 

Let us retrace our steps: I have deceived you:
Nothing is here I could not frankly tell you:
No hint of guilt, or faithlessness, or threat.
Dreams—they are madness. Staring eyes—illusion.
Let us return, hear music, and forget . . .

 

Conrad Aiken