Fictions are merely frozen dreams, linked images with some semblance of structure. They are not to be trusted, no more than the people who create them.

I must confess, I have always wondered what lay beyond life, my dear.Yeah, everybody wonders. And sooner or later everybody gets to find out.

A book is a dream that you hold in your hands.

I walk across the dreaming sands under the pale moon: through the dreams of countries and cities, past dreams of places long gone and times beyond recall.

The bonds of family bind us up, support us, help us. And they are also a bond from which it is difficult, perhaps impossible to extricate oneself.

If the city was dreaming," he told me, "then the city is asleep. And I do not fear cities sleeping, stretched out unconscious around their rivers and estuaries, like cats in the moonlight. Sleeping cities are tame and harmless things.""What I fear," he said, "is that one day the cities will waken. That one day the cities will rise.

You will forget. Death or life will take him from your minds. I know, whispered Despair, in her distant, empty voice. But I shall remember him.

Justice?... Justice is a delusion you will not find on this or any other sphere.And wisdom? Wisdom is no part of dreams, lithe walker, though dreams are a part of the sum of each life's experiences, which is the only wisdom that matters.But revelation? That is the province of dream. It can be yours, but only if your heart is strong

Dreams are composed of many things, my son. Of images and hopes, of fears and memories. Memories of the past, and memories of the future...