The Sandman: Endless Nights

She decides to make a list of the things that make her happy. She writes 'plum-blossom' at the top of a piece of paper. Then she stares at the paper, unable to think of anything else. Eventually it begins to get dark.

I have heard the languages of apocalypse, and now I shall embrace the silence.

You hurt. It's okay. I hurt too. Hold my hand.

To be Despair. It is a portrait. Only close your eyes and feel.

He is holding a book. Inside the book is the Universe.

The people in the city seem paper thin in the mist. They believe they are dancing to the music of their lives... But I think, like the puppets, each of us is pulled upon invisible strings, until the night comes and we are put away. I shiver, and hurry from the square, as the darkness of the city closes over me like canal water or the grave.

She sat by the side of the road, in the snow, all bodiless and afraid, waiting for the happiness to start.

If you can't be happy where you are, you can't be happy anywhere

I you can't be happy where you are, you can't be happy anywhere.

The Gods did not count time spent fishing in the hours of a man's life.

Oči má šedé. Vlasy má rozcuchané a mokré. Prsty má jako buřtíky. Nehty má pokousané a polámané. Zuby má křivé, rozeklané. Má prázdný pohled, a když jste jí poblíž, vzbuzuje ve vás pocit nepřítomnosti, který se nedá slovy vyjádřit. Jejím znakem je prsten s háčkem. Jednoho dne se vám ten háček zadře do srdce. Popsat ji znamená vyjádřit, co je a proč je: přijde, když naděje pomine. Je v tisících čekáren a prázdných ulicích, v budovách ze šedého betonu a v bezejmenných hotelech. Je na druhé straně každého zrcadla. když tě oči, které se na tebe dívají, znají až moc dobře. Stojí a čeká a v jejím postoji ti už bolest neříká, abys žil, a v její přítomnosti je radost nepředstavitelná.

Rules and responsibilities: these are the ties that bind us. We do what we do, because of who we are. If we did otherwise, we would not be ourselves. I will do what I have to do. And I will do what I must.

I don't know. I had to be something, didn't I?

The only thing that kept me going was stories. Stories are hope. They take you out of yourself for a bit, and when you get dropped back in, you're different- you're stronger, you've seen more, you've felt more. Stories are like spiritual currency.

For there was nothing in his eyes but the black night and the cold stars.

Sometimes he tries to catch her, wading frantically through earth that has turned to water, or sometimes through air. Sometimes she tries to catch him. They never catch each other, no matter what.

As Raimon and Desire listened, Aimeric sang of Carenza's beauty. He sang of the oaths he had given to his lord, the count Bertran, and of another oath, one that he had sworn to Countess Carenza in his heart. He would keep her at the forefront of his thoughts, he would cherish her forever. They would never satisfy their desire, never even kiss one another, but he would be faithful to her until he died.

Raimon was amused to see that the countess Carenza grew more beautiful by the day: her expression has softened and the pouches under her eyes had disappeared. She carried herself confidently, secure in the knowledge that she was fascinating to one pair of eyes at least.

For Desire, who is male and female, fair and dark, old and young, anything and everything you have ever wished for, or coveted, or needed, is irresistible. And so what would be the point, after all? Love is not a game to Desire, as it is to so many mortals, or if it is, it is a game with a foregone conclusion: Desire always wins. And Desire hates more than anything to be bored.

Cloaks are nice. You can wear a cloak and have nothing on under it at all. And you can go anywhere you want like that!

All that I did," she said, "everything I tried to do. All for nothing." Nothing is done entirely for nothing, said the fox of dreams. Nothing is wasted. You are older, and you have made decisions, and you are not the fox you were yesterday. Take what you have learned, and move on.

He told me not to seek revenge, but to seek the Buddha,' said the fox spirit, sadly. 'Wise counsel,' said the fox of dreams. 'Vegeance can be a road that has no ending. You would be wise to avoid it. And...?' 'I shall seek the Buddha,' said the fox, with a toss of her head. 'But first I shall seek revenge.

Take what you have learned, and move on.

Once, I was a poet, and, like all poets, I spent too long in the Kingdom of Dreams.

Vengeance can be a road that has no ending. You would be wise to avoid it.

Seek not revenge, but the Buddha.

I would have given my life for you," she whispered, sadly. "Live," said the monk. "You shall be revenged," said the fox. "The onmyoji who did this to you will learn what it means to take something from a fox.

That which is dreamed can never be lost, can never be undreamed.

Only the phoenix rises and does not descend. And everything changes. And nothing is truly lost.

We were never lovers, and we never will be, now. I do not regret that, however. I regret the conversations we never had, the time we did not spend together. I regret that I never told him that he made me happy, when I was in his company. The world was the better for his being in it. These things alone do I now regret: things left unsaid. And he is gone, and I am old.

Omnia Mutantur, Nihil Interit. 'Everything changes, but nothing is truly lost.

Death’s a funny thing. I used to think it was a big, sudden thing, like a huge owl that would swoop down out of the night and carry you off. I don’t anymore. I think it’s a slow thing. Like a thief who comes to your house day after day, taking a little thing here and a little thing there, and one day you walk round your house and there’s nothing there to keep you, nothing to make you want to stay. And then you lie down and shut up forever. Lots of little deaths until the last big one.

It's astonishing how much trouble one can get oneself into, if one works at it. And astonishing how much trouble one can get oneself out of, if one assumes that everything will, somehow or other, work out for the best.

I watched my life as if it were happening to someone else. My son died. And I was hurt, but I watched my hurt, and even relished it, a little, for now I could write a real death, a true loss. My heart was broken by my dark lady, and I wept, in my room, alone; but while I wept, somewhere inside I smiled.

Whatever happened to me in my life, happened to me as a writer of plays. I'd fall in love, or fall in lust. And at the height of my passion, I would think, 'So this is how it feels,' and I would tie it up in pretty words. I watched my life as if it were happening to someone else. My son died. And I was hurt, but I watched my hurt, and even relished it, a little, for now I could write a real death, a true loss. My heart was broken by my dark lady, and I wept, in my room, alone; but while I wept, somewhere inside I smiled. For I knew I could take my broken heart and place it on the stage of The Globe, and make the pit cry tears of their own.

Nobody died. how can you kill an idea? How can you kill the personification of an action?" "Then what died? who are you mourning?" "A point of view.

Charitably... I think... sometimes, perhaps, one must change or die. And, in the end, there were, perhaps, limits to how much he could let himself change.

Just remember, what the French say. No, probably not the French, they've got a president or something. The Brits, maybe, or the Swedes. You know what I mean?" "No, Matthew. What do they say?" "The king is dead, that's what they say. The king is dead. Long live the king.

He loved me. I do not doubt that. In hindsight, I do not believe that I loved him. I simply felt his love for me, burning and all-consuming, and reflected it back, as the cold light of the moon reflects the light of the sun. I did not know that at the time. I thought I loved him.

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.

And the state of his bathroom -- I'm not one to gossip, but there are things crusted on his sink that have not simply developed intelligent life, but have in all probability by now envolved their own political systems.

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.

Sometimes I suspect that we build our traps ourselves, then we back into them, pretending amazement the while.

But we do not need to recount every sermon and eulogy. After all, you were there.

I have no liking for prisons, Master Li. Sometimes I suspect that we build our traps ourselves, then we back into them, pretending amazement the while. That this is the way of life, from the All-Highest down to the meanest creature in creation... But whether this is the case or no, it is still a worthy thing to open cages. It is still a virtuous act to free the imprisoned. Tools of course, can be the subtlest of traps. One day, I know, I must smash the emerald.

But you will remember it, in the soft, lost, slumbering moments between waking and true sleep: remember the whispering voices of the Gods of Earth and Heaven, the piping laughter of innocent chaos, the frightened rusting of cold order...the voices of the living. The voices of the dead. They will haunt your sleep until you die.

I am banished to the grey waste at the end of the world, but I mourn myself no longer; I cherish the pain in my hand. I imagine the taste of the mulberries in the violet dusk. And tomorrow I shall arrive in the town of Wei. Only the phoenix arises and does not descend. And everything changes. And nothing is truly lost.

There once was a sage who loved his only son as much as you loved yours. One day the son died, and yet the father shed no tears and made no mourning. When they asked why, he told them, I did not mourn him before he was born, and I will not mourn him now he is gone. What do you think of that?" "I think that was foolishness. You mourn, for it is proper to mourn. But your grief serves you: you do not become a slave to grief. You bid the dead farewell, and you continue.

These books are all blank." "Best kind. Y'can write anything in them. Any book in the world starts with blank pages.

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

What exactly do you think you are doing?" "I am healing you. Creating you. Giving you life. I am bringing you back from the dead." "Hoom... Young man, I am dead. I was killed in what, for me at least, were fairly unpleasant circumstances. It hurt. It was deeply upsetting, and painful. However, it happened. I am dead. If you bring me back to life, my death will have no meaning. I had a fine existence. I was a good place. I spent a little time walking the waking world. I even fell in love, once, a little. I lived a good life and it ended. Would you take that away from me?

Father? I am your son. That is only a kitten. Why do you abandon me to chase after it?" "When you were alive, you were all my joy. Now you are dead, I see you only in my dreams. And when I awake, my pillow is wet with tears. The kitten is living, and it needs my help.

Old friend, in my mind only do I write you this letter, But it is a perfect letter, with perfect brushwork, Old hands do not shake or cramp when the letter is written on the air.

Why do people slow down to look at car crashes?" "Because they want to see if someone's dead, and they want to be sure it's not them.

Sometimes we can choose the paths we follow. Sometimes our choices are made for us. And sometimes we have no choice at all.

To absent friends, lost loves, old gods, and the season of mists; and may each and every one of us always give the devil his due.

I think hell is something you carry around with you. Not somewhere you go.

Lucifer protests he was never to blame for inducing anyone to sin, and that he’s never had an interest in owning souls: 'They die, and they come here – having transgressed against what they believed to be right – and expect us to fulfill their desire for pain and retribution. I don’t make them come here… I need no souls. And how can anyone own a soul? No, they belong to themselves. They just hate to have to face up to it.

Why do they blame me for all their little failings? They use my name as if I spent my entire days sitting on their shoulders, forcing them to commit acts they would otherwise find repulsive. 'The devil made me do it.' I have never made one of them do anything. Never. They live their own tiny lives. I do not live their lives for them.

I think, well, I've had a shit of a life, all things considered. It wasn't fair. Everyone I've ever loved is dead, and my leg hurts all the bloody time... But I think, any God that can do sunsets like that, a different one every night... 'Strewth, well, you've got to respect the old bastard, haven't you?

October knew, of course, that the action of turning a page, of ending a chapter or of shutting a book, did not end a tale. Having admitted that, he would also avow that happy endings were never difficult to find: "It is simply a matter," he explained to April, "of finding a sunny place in a garden, where the light is golden and the grass is soft; somewhere to rest, to stop reading, and to be content.

Never a possession, always the possessor, with skin as pale as smoke, and eyes tawny and sharp as yellow wine: Desire is everything you've ever wanted. Whoever you are. Whatever you are. Everything.

There must be a Hell. A place for demons. A place for the damned. Hell is Heaven's reflection. Heaven's shadow. They define each other. There must be a Hell for without Hell, Heaven has no meaning. --Remiel

It is said that scattered through Despair's domain are a multitude of tiny windows, hanging in the void. Each window looks out onto a different scene, being, in our world, a mirror. Sometimes you will look into a mirror and feel the eyes of Despair upon you, feel her hook catch and snag on your heart. Despair says little, and is patient.

It’s part of growing up, I suppose…you always have to leave something behind you.

Go back? I don’t know. I think hell’s something you carry around with you. Not somewhere you go. They’re doing the same things they always did. They’re doing it to themselves. That’s hell.

Perhaps this is the ultimate freedom, eh, Dreamlord? The freedom to leave.

They believe themselves Lucifer's equals, Cain, all these pitiful little gnats. But there is only one that we have ever owned to be our superior. There is but one greater than us, and to him... to him we no longer speak.

Walk any path in Destiny's garden, and you will be forced to choose, not once but many times.

They talk of me going around buying souls, like a fishwife come market day, never stopping to ask themselves why. I need no souls. And how can anyone own a soul? No. They belong to themselves...they just hate to face up to it.

The paths fork and divide. With each step you take through Destiny's garden, you make a choice; and every choice determines future paths. However, at the end of a lifetime of walking you might look back, and see only one path stretching out behind you; or look ahead, and see only darkness.

I think maybe Hell is a place. But you don't have to stay anywhere forever.

They also held that the way to salvation was to give way to lust and temptation in all things. And no greater percentage of them turned up here than of any other religion. Amusing, isn't it?

I am Desire, am I not? That is what I am; that is what I do. I make things want things. Where I touch, things want and need and love - drawn to their objects of desire like butterflies to a candle-flame.

This is not a place, after all. It is BETWEEN places. This is NOWHERE. A brief thought: I could stay here, abandon my quest, hang forever in the void, safe and cold and alone.

[Dream] I do not want a grape. [Desire] I could make you want one.

He heard long ago, in a dream, that one day in every century Death takes on mortal flesh, better to comprehend what the lives she takes must feel like, to taste the bitter tang of mortality: that this is the price she must pay for being the divider of the living from all that has gone before, all that must come after.

So this is your library, huh, Lucien? It's a big place What's so special about it, then?" "Oh, it's a very unusual library, Matthew. Somewhere in here is every story that has every been dreamed. " "They're just books." "Oh yes. But unusual books. You'll find none of them on Earth. In this section, for example, are novels their authors never wrote, or never finished, except in dreams.

It's part of growing up, I suppose. You always have to leave something behind you.

Everything created has a beginning, Destiny of the Endless...as everything created has an end.

Destiny smells of dust and the libraries of the night.

Been there, Remiel. Done that. Wore the T-Shirt, ate the burger, bought the original cast album, choreographed the legions of the damned and orchestrated the screaming.

Since the beginning he was the Creator's finest creation: the angel Samael, called Lucifer. It means 'the bringer of light'. Of all the angels he was the wisest, the most beautiful, the most powerful. Saving only his Creator, he is, perhaps, the most powerful being there is." "More powerful than you?" "Oh yes. By far." "Well, at least you've got the element of surprise on your side." "That would not be honorable, Matthew. I have already sent a messenger to the Lord of Hell, to let him know that I will be coming. One must do these things properly." "Smart, boss. Real smart.

You get what anybody gets - you get a lifetime.

CHORONZON: I am a dire wolf, prey-stalking, lethal prowler. MORPHEUS: I am a hunter, horse-mounted, wolf-stabbing. CHORONZON: I am a horsefly, horse-stinging, hunter-throwing. MORPHEUS: I am a spider, fly-consuming, eight legged. CHORONZON: I am a snake, spider-devouring, posion-toothed. MORPHEUS: I am an ox, snake-crushing, heavy-footed. CHORONZON: I am an anthrax, butcher bacterium, warm-life destroying. MORPHEUS: I am a world, space-floating, life-nurturing. CHORONZON: I am a nova, all-exploding... planet-cremating. MORPHEUS: I am the Universe -- all things encompassing, all life embracing. CHORONZON: I am Anti-Life, the Beast of Judgment. I am the dark at the end of everything. The end of universes, gods, worlds... of everything. Sss. And what will you be then, Dreamlord? MORPHEUS: I am hope.

What power would hell have if those imprisoned here would not be able to dream of heaven?

I think I’ll dismember the world and then I’ll dance in the wreckage.

She's realized the real problem with stories -- if you keep them going long enough, they always end in death.

Never trust a demon. He has a hundred motives for anything he does ... Ninety-nine of them, at least, are malevolent.

Have you ever had one of those days when something just seems to be trying to tell you somebody?

DEATH: "Mostly they aren't too keen to see me. They fear the sunless lands. But they enter your realm each night without fear." MORPHEUS: "And I am far more terrible than you, sister.

You say I have no power? Perhaps you speak truly... But — you say that dreams have no power here? Tell me, Lucifer Morningstar... Ask yourselves, all of you... What power would hell have if those imprisoned were not able to dream of heaven?

You can know anything. It's all there. You just have to find it.

I am anti-life, the Beast of Judgment. I am the dark at the end of everything. The end of universes, gods, worlds…of everything. And what will you be then, Dreamlord?" "I am hope.

All Bette's stories have happy endings. That's because she knows where to stop. She's realized the real problem with stories—if you keep them going long enough, they always end in death.

Some things are too big to be seen; some emotions too huge to be felt.

I will be a wise and tolerant monarch, dispencing justice fairly, and only setting nightmares to rip out the winds of the evil and the wicked. Or just anybody that I don't like.

It is as natural to die as it is to be born.

The universe knows someone is missing, and slowly it attempts to replace him.

As I wouldn't wear a costume, I couldn't imagine him wanting to wear one. And seeing that the greater part of my wardrobe is black (It's a sensible colour. It goes with anything. Well, anything black)[...].

I watched him even then as he fell, his face undefeated, his eyes still proud

But...is that all there was? Is that all I get? Yes, I'm afraid so.

You see, until then I'd been driven. I'd had a true quest, a purpose beyond my function - and then suddenly, the quest was over. I felt... drained. Disappointed. Let down. Does that make sense? I had been sure that as soon as I had everything back I'd feel good. But inside I felt worse than when I stared.

Have you ever had one of those dreams, you know where you think you've woken up, but you haven't ? It's just part of the nightmare and you're still in it...

CHORONZON "I am anti-life, the beast of judgement. I am the dark at the end of everything. The end of universes, Gods, worlds... of everything. And what will you be then, Dreamlord?" MORPHEUS "I am hope.

Ask yourselves, all of you... What power would Hell have if those here imprisoned were not able to dream of Heaven?

What power would Hell have if those here imprisoned were not able to dream of Heaven?

Approaching the state of Delaware, the dreamer is a small dog, dreaming impatiently of a past life, long forgotten, when he sailed tall ships across uncharted. The salt spray of the ocean stings my face.

Why us, goddammit? Why are you doing this stuff to us? You're going to kill us!" "Why? Because I can.

It smells strange. Part of it reminds me of the month I worked for an undertaker; all flesh and formaldehyde. 's weird: smells are a hotline to memory.

Dime, Lucifer.. Preguntaos, todos... ¿Qué poder tendría el infierno si los aquí encerrados no soñasen con el cielo?

Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up.

I've been making a list of the things they don't teach you at school. They don't teach you how to love somebody. They don't teach you how to be famous. They don't teach you how to be rich or how to be poor. They don't teach you how to walk away from someone you don't love any longer. They don't teach you how to know what's going on in someone else's mind. They don't teach you what to say to someone who's dying. They don't teach you anything worth knowing.

Then, one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life...you give them a piece of you. They don't ask for it. They do something dumb one day like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own anymore.

Have you ever been in love? Horrible, isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses. You build up this whole armor, for years, so nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life… You give them a piece of you. They don't ask for it. They do something dumb one day like kiss you, or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own anymore. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so a simple phrase like "maybe we should just be friends" or "how very perceptive" turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It's a soul-hurt, a body-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. Nothing should be able to do that. Especially not love. I hate love.

You don't have to stay anywhere forever.

We make choices. No one else can live our lives for us. And we must confront and accept the consequences of our actions.

All around me darkness gathers, Fading is the sun that shone, We must speak of other matters, You can be me when I'm gone Flowers gathered in the morning, Afternoon they blossom on, Still are withered in the evening, You can be me when I'm gone.

We do what we do, because of who we are. If we did otherwise, we would not be ourselves.

It has always been the prerogative of children and half-wits to point out that the emperor has no clothes. But a half-wit remains a half-wit, and the emperor remains an emperor.

I would feel infinitely more comfortable in your presence if you would agree to treat gravity as a law, rather than one of a number of suggested options.

Can't say I've ever been too fond of beginnings, myself. Messy little things. Give me a good ending anytime. You know where you are with an ending.

I suppose the point you grow up is the point you let the dreams go.

There is a madness, yes, this is true. Few mortals possess it, the willingness to step away from the protection of sanity. To walk into the wild wood of madness...

Delirium: You use that word so much. Responsibilities. Do you ever think about what that means? I mean, what does it mean to you? In your head? Dream: Well, I use it to refer that area of existence over which I exert a certain amount of control or influence. In my case, the realm and action of dreaming. Delirium: Hump. It's more than that. The things we do make echoes. S'pose, f'rinstance, you stop on a street corner and admire a brilliant fork of lightning--ZAP! Well for ages after people and things will stop on that very same corner, stare up at the sky. They wouldn't even know what they were looking for. Some of them might see a ghost bolt of lightning in the street. Some of them might even be killed by it. Our existence deforms the universe. THAT'S responsibility.

MORPHEUS: I did not intend to hurt you, THESSALY: And what if you did not? Intent and outcome are so rarely coincident.

As-tu déjà été amoureux? C'est horrible non? Ca rend si vulnérable. Ca t'ouvre la poitrine et le coeur en grand et du coup, n'importe qui peut venir te bousiller de l'intérieur. On se forge des défenses, on se fabrique une belle armure pour que rien ne puisse jamais nous atteindre, et voilà qu'un imbécile, pas bien différent des autres s'immisce dans notre imbécile de vie... On lui offre un morceau de soi alors que l'autre n'a rien demandé. Il a juste fait un truc débile un jour, genre t'embrasser ou te sourire, mais, depuis, ta vie ne t'appartient plus. L'amour te prend en otage. Il s'insinue en toi. Il te dévore de l'intérieur et te laisse tout seul à chialer dans le noir, au point qu'un simple phrase comme "je crois qu'on devrait rester amis" te fait l'effet d'un éclat de verre qu'on t'aurait planté dans le coeur. Ca fait mal. Pas juste dans ton imagination. Pas juste dans ta tête. C'est une douleur à fendre l'âme, qui s'incruste en toi et te déchire du dedans. Je hais l'amour.

We are all improved by the glow of memory.

Facets, Matthew. Each facet catches the light in its own way. It glints and sparkles and flashes uniquely. It would almost be possible to believe that the facet was the jewel; not just a tiny part of it. But, then, as we move the jewel another facet catches the light." "So? What's your point?" "My point? I have no point, Matthew. Save for the jewel, and the facets, and the light. We see an aspect of the whole. But the facet is not the jewel....

It must be a real betrayal, when your body turns against you. I wonder if she likes flowers. All the bits of you that can go wrong... I don't like flowers, not really. I like growing them, but that's only because I like seeing them blossom, and seeing them die... But oh, how I do love to play God.

I'll tell you a secret. A raven created the world. When Noah sent him out to find land, he couldn't find any. It had all been washed away. So he created it. He shat the dry land and he pissed the the fresh water. Then he flew off, laughing fit to burst. So the world eas there for the dove to find. Really? They don't admit to it, of course. Who wants to be blamed for creating the world?

The gods we prayed to when we were young used up their time so long ago. They cannot answer anymore. They never liked us, did they? Gods don't "like". They love, they hate, they ignore...

And all the weird shit tumbles into perspective. It doesn't matter and it isn't real. No miracles. No magic. No dreams. Just pain and death, and Visa slips.

Our existence deforms the universe. That's responsibility.

There's but three Furies found in spacious hell But in a great man's breast three thousand dwell.

Oh, he'll help us whether he wants to or not. I told the truth. I would not kill him. The death-curse of a god is an evil thing. But I can hurt him. And I will. And besides... Have you never wondered, little bird, what it must be like to see the world through the eyes of a god?

Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn’t it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses, you build up a whole suit of armor, so that nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life ... You give them a piece of you. They didn’t ask for it. They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn’t your own anymore.

I am the mother of Odin's stallion, Sleipnir. I am the father of Fenrir Sun-Eater, and of Hel Half-Rotted and of Jormungund the World-Serpent. I am Loki Scar-Lip, Loki Skywalker, Loki Giant's Child, Loki Lie-Smith. I am Loki, who is fire and wit and hate. I am Loki. And I will be under an obligation to no one.

Sometimes you wake up. Sometimes the fall kills you. And sometimes, when you fall, you fly.

You attend the funeral, you bid the dead farewell. You grieve. Then you continue with your life. And at times the fact of her absence will hit you like a blow to the chest, and you will weep. But this will happen less and less as time goes on. She is dead. You are alive. So live.

It is sometimes a mistake to climb; it is always a mistake never even to make the attempt. If you do not climb, you will not fall. This is true. But is it that bad to fail, that hard to fall?

Some things are too big to be seen; some emotions are too huge to be felt.

Of course you don't believe in fairies. You're fifteen. You think I believed in fairies at fifteen? Took me until I was at least a hundred and forty. Hundred and fifty, maybe. Anyway, he wasn't a fairy. He was a librarian. All right?

You know what happens when you dream of falling? Sometimes you wake up. Sometimes the fall kills you. And sometimes, when you fall, you fly.

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.

It is sometimes a mistake to climb. It is always a mistake to never make the attempt.

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...

If you do not climb, you will not fall. This is true. But is it that bad to fail, that hard to fall?

Trees there were, old as trees can be, huge and grasping with hearts black as sin. Strange trees that some said walked in the night.

Bodies are strange. Some people have real problems with the stuff that goes on inside them. You find out that inside someone you know there's just mucus and meat and slime and bone. They menstruate, salivate, defecate and cry. You know? Sometimes it can just kill the romance. You know that?

We write our names in the sand, and then the waves roll in and wash them away.

And all the time we spent in this place would fade and vanish, like a dawn dream on waking that colours the day but cannot be touched or remembered.

Value's in what people think. Not in what's real. Value's in dreams, boy.

You shouldn't trust the storyteller; only trust the story.

- The myths are dead. The gods are dead. The ghosts and ghouls and phantoms are dead. There is only the State, and the People. - No, Monsieur Robespierre. There is much more than that.

Listen, blood of my blood, although I'm a hard man to anger, and I love you deeply, if you interrupt me again so help me I'll rip out your throat with my teeth.

How long can it last? How long will people remember? I have seen the world, Dream King. I have ridden through the deserts, and seen the rocks and old walls and statues breathed up by the desert wind in the empty wastes of sand; and then the wind and the sand come up once more and the remnants of cities and palaces and gods vanish for another age of man, forgotten and unremembered... This is as good as it's going to be, isn't it?

I beg you, by these silent realms, to weave again the destiny of one who died too soon. For we the living will be yours one day and all we hope and feel and touch and dream, all we hold dear, will wither and be gone. For at the end, with pennies on our eyes, we die, and rot. And then, as hollow ghosts we'll dwell below: our last, our final home.

It is true that my rent is but 50 cents a week. It is true that my clothes were a gift from the city council. I exchange federal currency for my own, and thus I live. Many restaurants and eating houses now accept my scrip. This is my city, in my country. They treat me well here. I am the Emperor of the United States, Pain. I am content to be what I am. What more than that could any man desire?

I like the stars. It's the illusion of permanence, I think. I mean, they're always flaring up and caving in and going out. But from here, I can pretend...I can pretend that things last. I can pretend that lives last longer than moments. Gods come, and gods go. Mortals flicker and flash and fade. Worlds don't last; and stars and galaxies are transient, fleeting things that twinkle like fireflies and vanish into cold and dust. But I can pretend...

She said we all not only could know everything. We do. We just tell ourselves we don't to make it all bearable.

You know the best thing about aeroplanes? Apart from the peanuts in the little silver bags, I mean. It's looking out of the windows at the clouds, and thinking, maybe I could go walking in there. Maybe it's a special place where everything's okay. Sometimes I do go walking in the clouds, but it's just cold and wet and empty. But when you look out of a plane it's a special world... and I like that.

You lived what anybody gets, Bernie. You got a lifetime. No more. No less.

You got a lifetime. No more. No less.

I like airplanes. I like anywhere that isn't a proper place. I like in betweens.

Delirium: "What's the name of the word for the precise moment when you realize that you've actually forgotten how it felt to make love to somebody you really liked a long time ago?" Dream: "There isn't one." Delirium: "Oh. I thought maybe there was.

Touched by her fingers, the two surviving chocolate people copulate desperately, losing themselves in a melting frenzy of lust, spending the last of their brief borrowed lives in a spasm of raspberry cream and fear.

The stuff you bring back from dreams is free.

Have you ever spent days and days and days making up flavors of ice cream that no one's ever eaten before? Like chicken and telepone ice cream? Green mouse ice cream was the worst. I didn't like that at all.

Is there a word for forgetting the name of someone when you want to introduce them to someone else at the same time you realize you've forgotten the name of the person you're introducing them to as well?" "No.

Change. Change. Change. Change … change. Change. Chaaange. When you say words a lot they don't mean anything. Or maybe they don't mean anything anyway, and we just think they do.

Do you know why I stopped being Delight, my brother? I do. There are things not in your book. There are paths outside this garden.

One cannot begin a new dream without abandoning the last [one].

DESTRUCTION: Our sister [Death] defines life, just as Despair defines hope, or Desire defines hatred, or as Destiny defines freedom. MORPHEUS: And what do I define, by this theory of yours. DESTRUCTION: Reality, perhaps.

When you dream, sometimes you remember. When you wake, you always forget.

There are a number of paths that lead to this place. I have been avoiding them for some small time, now.

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.

Hey, that's life, flick it off if you can't take a joke.

What's the name of the word for the precise moment when you realize that you've actually forgotten how it felt to make love to somebody you really liked a long time ago?

Of course, the truth is that no one likes change. People in hell not only refuse to leave it, they invite you in, too. Even people who have blasted the other lives that touched their own blasted lives proudly declare in old age that they would not change a thing -- all that cursing and screaming was their life, by God, and it is not possible to imagine any other. Change introduces unpredictability, uncertainty, a universe of disorder. Right before an amoeba splits in two, it says to itself, uh uh, no way, I ain't gonna do that, nope.

You can indeed become lost, in dreams. And you may not always find yourself when you wake up.

Delirium: Um. What’s the name of the word for things not being the same always. You know. I’m sure there is one. Isn’t there? There must be a word for it… the thing that lets you know time is happening. Is there a word? Dream: Change. Delirium: …I was afraid of that.

Reason. It is no more reliable a tool than instinct, myth or dream. But it has the potential to be far more dangerous...

It's just that I get distracted, and I get Lost kind of easily, and sometimes I have really bad days.... ....When, you know, I just want to Hide or Scream or Bleed or something, and.....All that...

To bite off your shadow is neither easy nor painless. It demands a single-mindedness that is almost unknown in this day.

It always rains on the unloved-wet dreams-a fishing expedition-she kisses wyverns (the disneyland analogy)-dinner etiquette and chocolate lovers-desire swears by the first circle-"things are changing"-what can possibly go wrong?

I like the stars. It’s the illusion of permanence, I think. I mean, they’re always flaring up and caving in and going out. But from here, I can pretend… I can pretend that things last. I can pretend that lives last longer than moments. Gods come, and Gods go. Mortals flicker and flash and fade. Worlds don’t last; and stars and galaxies are transient, fleeting things that twinkle like fireflies and vanish into cold and dust. But I can pretend.

Things need not have happened to be true. Tales and dreams are the shadow-truths that will endure when mere facts are dust and ashes, and forgot.

But he did not understand the price. Mortals never do. They only see the prize, their heart's desire, their dream... But the price of getting what you want, is getting what you once wanted.

When the first living thing existed, I was there waiting. When the last living thing dies, my job will be finished. I'll put the chairs on the tables, turn out the lights and lock the universe behind me when I leave.

I'm not blessed, or merciful. I'm just me. I've got a job to do, and I do it. Listen: even as we're talking, I'm there for old and young, innocent and guilty, those who die together and those who die alone. I'm in cars and boats and planes; in hospitals and forests and abbatoirs. For some folks death is a release, and for others death is an abomination, a terrible thing. But in the end, I'm there for all of them.

Writers are liars my dear, surely you know that by now?

For some folks death is release, and for others death is an abomination, a terrible thing. But in the end, I'm there for all of them.

I only have two kinds of dreams: the bad and the terrible. Bad dreams I can cope with. They're just nightmares, and they end eventually. I wake up. The terrible dreams are the good dreams. In my terrible dreams, everything is fine. I am still with the company. I still look like me. None of the last five years ever happened. Sometimes I'm married. Once I even had kids. I even knew their names. Everything's wonderful and normal and fine. And then I wake up, and I'm still me. And I'm still here. And that is truly terrible.

Writers are liars, my dear, surely you know that by now? And yet, things need not have happened to be true. Tales and dreams are the shadow-truths that will endure when mere facts are dust and ashes, and forgot.

You people always hold onto old identities, old faces and masks, long after they've served their purpose. But you've got to learn to throw things away eventually.

I smoke a cigarette, and pretend I'm normal. And I wish I was dead.

Still, every little bit helps, as the old woman said when she pissed in the sea.

When the first living thing existed, I was there, waiting.

I hate dreams. I don't want any more dreams. I don't want any more anything.

Rainie, mythologies take longer to die than people believe. They linger on in a kind of dream country that affects all of you.

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

They say that cigarettes will kill you, eventually. Fine. That's just fine. I only wish they'd do it faster.

...then a human arose amongst them. a golden-furred male, bred and raised in the pleasure gardens of one of the sybaritic feline ladies. and the human had a dream. and it walked amongst its fellows and it told them "dream! dreams shape the world."[...] and the word spread amongst the humans. [...] one night, enough of them dreamed. a thousand perhaps, no more. they dreamed... and the next day, things changed. humans were huge, and cats were tiny.

An old writer with no one to talk to gets fond of the sound of his own voice.

I think I fell in love with her, a little bit. Isn't that dumb? But it was like I knew her. Like she was my oldest, dearest friend. The kind of person you can tell anything to, no matter how bad, and they'll still love you, because they know you. I wanted to go with her. I wanted her to notice me. And then she stopped walking. Under the moon, she stopped. And looked at us. She looked at me. Maybe she was trying to tell me something; I don't know. She probably didn't even know I was there. But I'll always love her. All my life.

Is there any person in the world who does not dream? Who does not contain within them worlds unimagined?

Sometimes big things happen, and they echo. Those echoes crash across worlds. They are the ripples in the fabric of things. Often they manifest as storms. Reality is a fragile thing, after all.

So, if a city has a personality, maybe it also has a soul. Maybe it dreams.

Nothing you do in the White House matters. You know why not? Because as far as the mass of voting morons is concerned, while you're in office, you'll still be the worst single president they've ever had until you stop. Then it's some other poor bastard's turn. And even that doesn't matter, because ten, twenty years later, they'll look back on you, and wonder why they didn't appreciate you when they had you...You don't get to make a difference. You don't get to do jack shit. You know what you get?...You get an entry in the history book, and every 15 minutes, every day at Disneyworld, an animatronic puppet wearing your face will wave or nod when the spotlight hits it.

I don't really like driving in the snow. There's something about the motion of the falling snowflakes that hurts my eyes, throws my sense of balance all to hell. It's like tumbling into a field of stars.

In the manner of one recognizing a line from a familiar poem in a strange book.

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.

¿Acaso hay alguien en el mundo que no sueñe, que no contenga en su interior mundos no imaginados?

For love is no part of the dreamworld. Love belongs to Desire, and Desire is always cruel.

The only reason people die, is because EVERYONE does it. You all just go along with it. It's RUBBISH, death. It's STUPID. I don't want nothing to do with it.

Love belongs to Desire. And Desire is always Cruel. -Old Man

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.

We don't have a clue what's really going down, we just kid ourselves that we're in control of our lives while a paper's thickness away things that would drive us mad if we thought about them for too long play with us, and move us around from room to room, and put us away at night when they're tired, or bored.

And Desire smiles, and forgets, for Desire is a creature of the moment.

Chantal is having a relationship with a sentence. Just one of those things. A chance meeting that grew into something important for the both of them.

There is another version of the tale. That is the tale the women tell each other, in their private language that the men-children are not taught, and that the old men are too wise to learn. And in that version of the tale perhaps things happened differently. But then, that is a women's tale, and it is never told to men.

It means the world's about as solid and as reliable as a layer of scum on the top of a well of black water which goes down forever, and there are things in the depths that I don't even want to think about. It means more than that. It means that we're just dolls. We don't have a clue what's really going down, we just kid ourselves that we're in control of our lives while a paper's thickness away things that would drive us mad if we thought about them for too long play with us, and move us around from room to room, and put us away at night when they're tired, or bored.

If there is a moral to this part of the story, and I distrust morals in the same way that I distrust beginnings, it is simply this: know that with which you deal.

In the beginning… But of course we never see the beginning. We come in in the middle, after the lights have gone down, and try to make some sense of the story so far. Whisper to our neighbours “Who’s he? Who’s she? Have they met each other before?” We get by.

Do you know what Freud said about dreams of flying? It means you're really dreaming about having sex." "Indeed? Tell me, then, what does it mean when you dream about having sex?

I am coming through the barriers you have erected in this mind. I am coming, though the way be ardous and strange. Nothing will stop me. As I travel, I admire the craftsmanship in the construction of this maze, admire the traps and pitfalls they have wrought. You have learned well, my servants. To force the child to construct these barriers insides its mind, in its effort to escape the physical world; to build an island of dream alone and untouched by the true Dreaming... This takes skill. My admiration does not lessen my anger. I am dream. I am coming.

Did I hear you say that you had no intention of ever dying?" "Um. Yeah. Yeah. That's right. It's a mug's game. I won't have any part of it." "Then you must tell me what it's like. Let us meet here again, Robert Gadling. In this tavern of the White Horse. In a hundred years.

I doubt I'm any wiser than I was five hundred years back. I'm older. I've been up, and been down, and been up again. Have I learned aught? I've learned from my mistakes, but I've had more time to commit more mistakes.

We of the endless are the servants of the living -- we are not their masters. We exist because they know, deep in their hearts, that we exist.

Y entonces ella despertó." Siempre he odiado que una historia acabe así. Hace que me sienta engañada.