Dream Catcher Quotes

bookshops are time machines spaceships story-makers secret-keepers dragon-tamers dream-catchers fact-finders & safe places. (this book is for those who know this to be true)

She's my dream catcher. She keeps my nightmares at bay.

But then you slammed a door handle into my gut. And when a girl does that to a guy; it means she likes him.

These places are time machines, spaceships, story-makers, secret-keepers. They are dragon-tamers, dream-catchers, fact-finders, and safe places. They are full of infinite possibilities and tales worth taking home.

Dreams are necessary. Like the air, without realizing it, I, you, and we all need dreams. The dreams that guide us on what we do today because today is the answer to our dreams the other day.

If I ever get a car I’m going to hang a miniature garbage can from the rear view mirror and tell people it’s my “dream catcher.

Just because I was too young, it doesn't mean I cannot do something.

You go through life thinking there's so much you need. Your favorite jeans and sweater. The jacket with the faux-fur lining to keep you warm. Your phone and your music and your favorite books. Mascara. Irish breakfast tea and cappuccinos from Trouble Coffee. You need your yearbooks, every stiffly posed school-dance photo, the notes your friends slipped into your locker. You need the camera you got for your sixteenth birthday and the flowers you dried. You need your notebooks full of the things you learned and don't want to forget. You need your bedspread, white with black diamonds. You need your pillow - it fits the way you sleep. You need magazines promising self-improvement. You need your running shoes and your sandals and your boots. Your grade report from the semester you got straight As. Your prom dress, your shiny earrings, your pendants on delicate chains. You need your underwear, your light-colored bras and your black ones. The dream catcher hanging above your bed. The dozens and dozens of shells in glass jars... You think you need all of it. Until you leave with only your phone, your wallet, and a picture of your mother.

WAKE Dealing with an alcoholic single mother and endless hours of working at Heather Nursing Home to raise money for college, high-school senior Janie Hannagan doesn’t need more problems. But inexplicably, since she was eight years old, she has been pulled in to people’s dreams, witnessing their recurring fears, fantasies and secrets. Through Miss Stubin at Heather Home, Janie discovers that she is a dream catcher with the ability to help others resolve their haunting dreams. After taking an interest in former bad boy Cabel, she must distinguish between the monster she sees in his nightmares and her romantic feelings for him. And when she learns more about Cabel’s covert identity, Janie just may be able to use her special dream powers to help solve crimes in a suspense-building ending with potential for a sequel. McMann lures teens in by piquing their interest in the mysteries of the unknown, and keeps them with quick-paced, gripping narration and supportive characters.

Come, get entwined in the dream catcher of my heart.

Where did you get Ultima’s name?” many ask me. “That was her name when she came to me,” I answer. From that first fortuitous meeting I have trained myself to act as a dream catcher. I don’t seek characters, they seem to come to me asking me to tell their stories.

Our gridlocked conflicts contain the potential for great intimacy between us. But we have to feel safe enough to pull our dreams out of the closet. When we wear them, our partner may glimpse how beautiful we are—fragile but shimmering. Then, with understanding, our partners may join us in being dream catchers, rather than dream shredders.

So what, then? Pete? Clyde?" Cabel rolls over, pretending to sleep. "It's Fred, isn't it?" "Janie. Stop." "You named your thing Janie?" She giggles. Cabel groans deeply. "Go to sleep.

The principles of catching rumours were, in fact, similar to the principals of catching dreams, but because rumour was weightier, the catcher had to be positioned closer to the ground. Rumour flew low, dreams flew high, and somewhere in between were prayers.

What did your mom say?" "She said I better not be pregnant." Janie snorts. "What the hell is wrong with our parents, anyway? Wait -- you're not, are you?" "Of course not! Sheesh, Janers! I may not have gotten the best grades in school, but I'm not stupid. You know I'm on the Pill. And his Jimmy doesn't get near me without a raincoat, yadamean? Ain't nothin' getting through my little fortress!

The darkness is absent, driven out by my dream catcher…my fiancée. My love. My light.

My beacon. My dream catcher. My love. My life. Someone wants to kill us. Damn them.

We've always used stories as a way to pass on our history, as a way to explain things in life that we don't understand. We use them to make us feel connected to everything around us, and to help us escape to another time or place. Bookshops across the world are full of these stories. From travelling booksellers and undercover bookshops, to pop-up stalls and community hubs, walking into a good bookshop is like walking into another zone.These places are time machines, spaceships, story-makers, secret-keepers. They are dragon-tamers, dream-catchers, fact-finders and safe places. They are full of infinite possibilities, and tales worth taking home. Because whether we're in the middle of the desert or in the heart of a city, on the top of a mountain or on an underground train: having good stories to keep us company can mean the whole world.

The catchers delight in the moment so frozen but soon discover that the nightingale expires, its clear flutelike song diminishes to silence, the trapped moment grows withered and without life.

..this is your dream. Every moment, all of it. Even when you're tired or afraid. You're braver than you realize, and you will do this, and do it well." ~ Carla Olson Gade, The Shadow Catcher's Daughter

It's made of poetry and art and lost hearts enhanced in magic It's the kingdom of love, where free spirits find their resilience It's the dream catcher of lost passion and deep silence It's the torso where rebel souls find their homeland It's the beginning of a dream and the end of another It's what keeps you up in the night, when you're breathing dreams It's that madness of artists caught in the wind It's the night on a full moon drown between chimeras It's you making love to me, under the blessings of Seine..." (fragment from "Paris", chapter Hope)

Artists, composers and writers...are bent upon capturing and reining in the insights of a fugitive imagination, always inclined to shoot off into the distance, before they can get away, and on bringing them back into the immediacy of material engagement. Like hunters, they too are dream-catchers.

In the cool dark basement, she whispers, "It's not Ralph, is it?" Cabel's quiet for a moment, as if he's thinking, "You mean like Forever Ralph? Uh, no." "You've read Forever?" Janie is incredulous. "There wasn't much else to chose from on the hospital library cart, and Deenie was always checked out," Cable says sarcastically. "Did you like it?" Cabel laughs softly, "Um...well, it wasn't the wisest thing to read for a fourteen-year-old guy with fresh skin grafts in the general area down there, if you know what I mean.

The authors we classified as villains, detractors, and bad role models for our children are part of the educational curriculum. Freethinkers and the gutsy ones who pursued love and went against what society preordained are those we admire. The talented that wrote about these adventurous escapades and secret interludes are part of our literary tradition.

Don’t look elsewhere. Look inside your dreams, and there you’ll find your mojo and muse.

never picks truth. She’s a dare girl. That way, nobody gets inside. She can’t afford to let anyone inside. They might find out about her secret.

It is, perhaps, part of the human condition that children, as they grow to adulthood, must disentangle themselves from who their parents dreamt they might be, in order to figure out who they really are or hope to be. For

In a healthy relationship, your partner is a great “dream-catcher.” However, when that unformed dream is laughed at, questioned, or belittled, it may not recover. Worse, you may scrap the whole idea. However, if there is one thing a narcissistic person cannot tolerate, it is being inconvenienced. Even just hearing about your bad day is an inconvenience. When you are in a relationship with a narcissist, it can slowly dawn on you that things work well as long as you are convenient.

Have as little idle time as possible. Lakukan banyak hal yang lebih produktif dibandingkan hanya browsing di internet, menonton televisi, atau main games di ponsel. They can wait until the weekend comes. Dengan menjadi produktif, kita membuat diri sendiri melakukan banyak hal di waktu yang singkat.

I’m sorry. I know how much players have to focus, and I know not to be a distraction. I just got caught up in the moment, in the great game, in your terrific pitching.” But I felt a need to explain more. “Look, Jason, I love baseball. I love the crack of the bat hitting the ball. I love the seventh-inning stretch and singing ‘Take Me Out to the Ball Game.’ I love eating hot dogs and standing for the singing of the national anthem. I love doing the wave. I love Kiss Cam. I love that the game isn’t over until it’s over. “I love the thrill of a home run and the disappointment of an out at first. I love the way a batter stands at the plate and the catcher readies himself to receive the pitch. I love watching the pitcher windup. I love sitting in the stands and feeling like I’m part of the game. “And tonight, watching you pitch, I forgot that I’m only a small part—the spectator. Watching you, I felt like I was in the game, out on that field with you. You’re out there on the mound, living a dream that so few people ever experience. “I’m sorry, sorry that tonight I ruined the moment for you.” He was staring at me intently. I’d just bared my soul. Why didn’t he speak? What could he possibly be thinking? My nerves stretched taut. “Say something,” I demanded. “There’s nothing else to say,” he said in that quiet way he had. Then he lowered his head and kissed me.

Or there, in the clay-baked piedmont of the South, that lean and tan-faced boy who sprawls there in the creaking chair among admiring cronies before the open doorways of the fire department, and tells them how he pitched the team to shut-out victory to-day. What visions burn, what dreams possess him, seeker of the night? The packed stands of the stadium, the bleachers sweltering with their unshaded hordes, the faultless velvet of the diamond, unlike the clay-balked outfields down in Georgia. The mounting roar of eighty thousand voices and Gehrig coming up to bat, the boy himself upon the pitching mound, the lean face steady as a hound’s; then the nod, the signal, and the wind-up, the rawhide arm that snaps and crackles like a whip, the small white bullet of the blazing ball, its loud report in the oiled pocket of the catcher’s mitt, the umpire’s thumb jerked upwards, the clean strike.

All the books I liked were basically about the same topic. White Niggers by Ingvar Ambjørnsen, Beatles and Lead by Lars Saabye Christensen, Jack by Alf Lundell, On the Road by Jack Kerouac, Last Exit to Brooklyn by Hubert Selby, Jr., Novel with Cocaine by M. Agayev, Colossus by Finn Alnæs, Lasso Round the Moon by Agnar Mykle, The History of Bestiality trilogy by Jens Bjørneboe, Gentlemen by Klas Östergren, Icarus by Axel Jensen, The Catcher in the Rye by J. D. Salinger, Humlehjertene by Ola Bauer and Post Office by Charles Bukowski. Books about young men who struggled to fit into society, who wanted more from life than routines, more from life than a family, in short, young men who hated middle-class values and sought freedom. They travelled, they got drunk, they read and they dreamed about their life's Great Passion or writing the Great Novel. Everything they wanted I wanted too.

He was fat. He was not very good looking. He didn’t play up to the press. But he tried. Boy did he try. I could still see him stretching from first to third on a single to center and belly-whopping into the bag, invariably safe. I related to Thurman. I had been a catcher in Little League, I was chunky, I played tough, and I too was pretty ugly. I always took Thurm’s side in arguments, and somehow I could feel what he was going through in that Yankee dugout, sensing his fear and dislike for Reggie (Jackson). I understood Thurman Munson’s terribly private ordeal, trying to simply play ball without wanting to be on the cover of a magazine, avoiding the fanfare in a town that breathes glamour and ignores dedication. His death signifies to me how difficult life really is, how hard it is to do what you want, to love and maintain your family and still do your job. The American dream drags onward….

I’m sorry. I know how much players have to focus, and I know not to be a distraction. I just got caught up in the moment, in the great game, in your terrific pitching.” But I felt a need to explain more. “Look, Jason, I love baseball. I love the crack of the bat hitting the ball. I love the seventh-inning stretch and singing ‘Take Me Out to the Ball Game.’ I love eating hot dogs and standing for the singing of the national anthem. I love doing the wave. I love Kiss Cam. I love that the game isn’t over until it’s over. “I love the thrill of a home run and the disappointment of an out at first. I love the way a batter stands at the plate and the catcher readies himself to receive the pitch. I love watching the pitcher windup. I love sitting in the stands and feeling like I’m part of the game. “And tonight, watching you pitch, I forgot that I’m only a small part--the spectator. Watching you, I felt like I was in the game, out on that field with you. You’re out there on the mound, living a dream that so few people ever experience. “I’m sorry, sorry that tonight I ruined the moment for you.” He was staring at me intently. I’d just bared my soul. Why didn’t he speak? What could he possibly be thinking? My nerves stretched taut. “Say something,” I demanded. “There’s nothing else to say,” he said in that quiet way he had. Then he lowered his head and kissed me.

...a novelist...we dream non-living characters and animate them with out words...

Emblazoned across the chest is a dream catcher, and in the center of the dream catcher, a wolf’s head, fur limned in purples and grays, eyes shining in the morning light. “What is this shit?” I ask.

dreams

Thanks Mom, but I don’t think it will work,” I said hunching my shoulders and not looking forward to tonight. Mom told me it had special powers, very strong magical powers. “I’m sure it will work Boo Boo Bear (I wish she would stop calling me that), let’s just give it a try.” That night she tucked me into bed, read me a story, and told me to ask the dream catcher to catch the scary dreams. Then she switched off the light and left me all alone. I closed my eyes and repeated in my head, “Dreamcatcher please work, dreamcatcher please work….” And soon I fell asleep. I heard a high-pitched creepy noise, it sounded like fingernails scraping down a blackboard. A dragon’s claw started to slide out

With your dream catcher feathers And your torques blue medallion Your shinning white pearl necklace, Your face pressed against the ocean In your old age standing there against the wind Searching for the key to life

I believe there is such a man in this very parlor, your highness.” He should cut out his tongue. It was the only solution. He couldn’t very well cut off the other part of him that was rebelling from his best intentions. It was his favorite appendage. Her black lashes made several swift beats. “You would do it? Without worrying that I would tell my brother or mother or Arabella or anybody? And without telling anyone yourself?” “Come now. We are friends enough that I believe you know you can trust me.” Trust him to know her most fervent dreams and fantasies and not tell a soul including her? Yes, she could trust him. He was a villain. “Shall I teach you how to kiss your husband, princess?” “I don’t know.” She hesitated. “Will I like it?” He deserved that. “I suspect so.” -Cam & Jacqueline

I was looking for you,” she said, curtseying. He bowed elegantly, his dark eyes sparkling. “I could ask for no more melodious greeting.” “Oh, I cannot sing a note.” “I meant the words rather than the intonation.” “I know.” “You can’t sing?” She lifted her brows. “That bad, hm?” Amusement played at the corner of his mouth that had kissed her with such beauty. “Like a raven’s caw. So, you see, my dreams of singing carols in a red gown must come to naught. Do you sing?” He looked horrified. “Not if I don’t have to.” “When would you have to, I wonder.” “You would be amazed.” -Jacqueline & Cam

If pleasure could be had only through fiction, then she would happily dream. -Jacqueline's thoughts

What an agreeable tendency we seem to have of ignoring each other’s questions,” he said, his eyes hooding. The breeze ruffled the locks of hair at his collar. She could feel them, silk and warmth, between her fingers. She had felt them night after night in her dreams. “Do you think we will ever communicate anything of substance to each other if we go on in this cryptic fashion?” he said, studying her again, but a grin had settled in the corner of his mouth. “I don’t know,” she said, holding her breath as if that would contain the quivering inside her. “Perhaps we could give it a try now.” “Splendid.” He bowed. “Ladies first, of course.” -Cam & Jacqueline

There was nothing to be said, only the happiness she had dreamed now to be seized. But the hurt was too fresh. She brandished the broadsheet. “I admit, my lord, that your theory about Christmas gifts chosen to suit the recipient for greatest effect has merit.” “Only if the effect is to inspire mercy,” he replied quietly. She could not bear the confusion. She dipped her gaze. “When?” she whispered. “At the chateau.” Her eyes came up. “At first?” “I was intrigued. I had never known a woman like you.” His throat moved awkwardly. “I came to understand that there are no others.” The page crinkled between her fingers. “Why did you do it?” “Because I wanted you, and I think I didn’t know how to have you otherwise. Jacqueline, I have been a great fool, but I never wished to hurt you. I beg of you, if you can someday forgive m—” Her palm upon his chest stayed his words. Then she leaned forward, released a shaking breath, and buried her face in his shoulder. He wrapped his arms about her and held her tight. “I assume from this response that you will not, after all, be marrying Tarleton?” he said into her hair. “I will not. I could not.” Tears of joy arose in her eyes and soaked his shoulder. He stroked her hair. “Then perhaps you might consider marrying me instead? If you don’t, you know, you will never live this down, embracing a man with a hundred people looking on.” “Are they looking?” “Yes. I think they’re all eager to hear you sing ‘God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen.’ I know I am.” “Is there perhaps a black veil lying anywhere about?” “No, but I could remove my coat and you could throw that over your head. No one would recognize you, I’m certain.” She laughed and he held her tighter yet. “My darling,” he whispered close. “My love.” -Jacqueline & Cam

You haven't dispatched me because you know you need my help." "Do I?" He took a half step closer. "Or perhaps I have not yet dispatched you because, as depraved as I am, when I look at your lips I can feel your body beneath mine in the straw. If I were to do away with you now, that scenario could never be repeated." Her breaths were no longer deep but tight and quick. "Dream well tonight, sir. It is all you are going to get from me again." He smiled. -Ravenna & Vitor

go, we only got three horses. The other three

The only time I have ever seen my father cry in my whole life was the day he watched JFK’s funeral procession on television.

During the fall of 1961, two of my father’s Glass children, Franny and Zooey, ventured beyond the safe confines of The New Yorker and were introduced to the readership of the world at large. It was a big move from magazine to book.

Nader refused to bring her the feathery dream catcher – her asabikeshiinh – with its willow-web and invisible ‘lady spider’ apparently weaving her spells – an object Bea insisted always hung above her in bed.

From travelling booksellers and undercover bookshops, to pop-up stalls and community hubs, walking into a good bookshop is like walking into another zone. These places are time machines, spaceships, story-makers, secret-keepers. They are dragon-tamers, dream-catchers, fact-finders and safe places. They are full of infinite possibilities, and tales worth taking home.

you are the dream catcher you are the lover you are the source you are the experience you are the journey you are the destination try not to be perfect try to be an inspiration try to be helpful to others

Once I had no dreams, yet another there was, a Heavenly wife, that to make mine, I’d pause, yet after she left, without saying goodbye, I can’t be her catcher, of dreams, or in rye…

Your words were soul shredders They peeled off my old skin that had traces of your cells, still breathing and living off me I hogged on optimism for breakfast lunch and dinner My dreams got caught up in the dream catcher that you so fondly gifted me

Played catcher, just like you. We had these dreams that took us far beyond Minor League ball. Reality set in when we faced actual Major League talent. That's when we realized what our hopes actually were—dreams. The Marine Corps became a life we knew we could succeed in. I missed playing ball, sure, but when I think back on it, you kids gave me a life far more satisfying than any dream. That's what I was always meant to be—a father and a coach. That's what made sense.

Hedge lit his

a blue and silver shawl which matched

When Wren was in elementary school, the class attached paper wishes to the dream catchers they made with yarn and disposable plates. In thick marker, Wren wrote her dream: A Medium-Sized Life.