Thriller Dream Quotes

She stared at her console, wanting to punch it. Her dream, running to save her life, to save everything, was all going to come true down on the planet’s surface. And when it did, she knew this time she wasn’t going to wake up.

Only a psychopath would ever think of doing these things, only a psychopath would dream of abusing other people in such a way, only a psychopath would treat people as less than human just for money. The shocking truth is, even though they now have most if not all of the money, they want still more, they want all of the money that you have left in your pockets, they want it all because they have no empathy with other people, with other creatures, they have no feeling for the world which they exploit, they have no love or sense of being or belonging for their souls are dead, dead to all things but greed and a desire to rule over others.

Imagine you’re a fish, swimming in a pond. You can move forward and back, side to side, but never up out of the water. If someone were standing beside the pond, watching you, you’d have no idea they were there. To you, that little pond is an entire universe. Now imagine that someone reaches down and lifts you out of the pond. You see that what you thought was the entire world is only a small pool. You see other ponds. Trees. The sky above. You realize you’re a part of a much larger and more mysterious reality than you had ever dreamed of.

Life was about making sense out of the insensible. A ball of fire out of a clear blue sky? Must’ve been a meteorite, maybe debris from an airplane. Random flashes of light and color at night? A transformer blew up, you must’ve been dreaming, you’re talking crazy, quiet down, take your meds.

"One cannot be a mother without first being a person; family, husband, and children should not be allowed, as is so often the case, to steal a woman’s selfhood and her dreams." Mother to Sherlock, Mycroft, and Enola Holmes by author Nancy Springer

Hell had frozen over and I was lost in its endless labyrinth.

A quick thought shot through my mind. Could I really drown in a dream? I remembered the movie the Matrix. If you died in the matrix, you died in real life. I wasn’t about to take a chance...

The young all have the same dream: to save the world. Some quickly forget this dream, convinced that there are more important things to do, like having a family, earning money, traveling, and learning a foreign language. Others, though, decide that it really is possible to make a difference in society and to shape the world we will hand on to future generations.

Usually I’m asked to solve a case that’s definitely real. Your distress is genuine, however, so I’ll see what I can find out, but I must warn you that I can’t be sure of success. A dream isn’t tangible evidence, after all.

A good book is a good place to go..... to dream!

He didn’t see a man with hopes and dreams, with disappointments and accomplishments. All he saw in front of him was just another nigger.

The big trinity of publishing: mystery, thrillers and romance. If you can combine all three, then it’s a winner’s trifecta and you’ll be rich beyond your dreams.

He grinned, a very dark and evil grin… the kind of grin that the Grinch had before he stole Christmas.

Can a black man succeed today beyond his wildest imagination? Can he experience the so-called American dream? Sure he can! He can overcome bigotry and societal views and ideas that stand in his way. But that doesn’t mean that he, unlike his white counterpart, doesn’t have to rise above adverse societal views and bigotry. . .

Be careful with your visions, Ryan; that the nightmare doesn’t consume your reality, where you begin to live in that nightmare, and can only dream back your reality.

Dream as if you will live forever. Live as if you will die today.

The mirror sighed and spoke in a tone tinged with melancholy. Its language was old and not of any of the worlds known or unknown. What you dream, what you darkly desire, Find it by trial or by fire. Seek it high and seek it low, Search the skies or the realms below. Look everywhere but beware, The deepest magic, the strongest spell Will not change what the stars foretell.

Enough with the sadness! This dream is not for cry-babies...” he said, his face beaming with a wide smile.

This is what people were looking at all day? How embarrassing! I looked like Quasimodo! My guests were exceptional actors.

What is the difference between a dream and its memory?

There were adventure stories supplied with cloths for mopping your brow, thrillers containing pressed leaves of soothing valerian to be sniffed when the suspense became too great, and books with stout locks sealed by the Atlantean censorship authorities ("Sale permitted, reading prohibited!"). One shop sold nothing but 'half' works that broke off in the middle because their author had died while writing them; another specialised in novels whose protagonists were insects. I also saw a Wolperting shop that sold nothing but books on chess and another patronised exclusively by dwarfs with blond beards, all of whom wore eye-shades.

A tired man is already in the grip of death and insanity ... A sane man is a man who is fully awake. As he grows tired, he loses his ability to rise above dreams and delusions, and life becomes steadily more chaotic.

When love,” she began to sing softly, “into my dreams was creeping.” Her voice was low and sultry. “I gave my heart into your keeping.” Pure ecstasy. How he needed her.

Seconds seem like a life time when the life you lived is slowly drained out of you by those who care not what you felt, hoped, or dreamed. When the darkness comes it is all consuming, there is no light and there is no pain. It is the never ending loss of hope that now consumes me as I die in his arms.

ALWAYS KEEP YOUR DREAMS ALIVE

The main question raised by the thriller is not what kind of world we live in, or what reality is like, but what it has done to us

When you go to sleep, where do you really go?

Do not lament the suffering we have to endure to fulfill the dream but rejoice in the courage with which we will face it.

Is this seat taken?" The deep, gravelly voice jolted Noelle from her blood-thirsty thoughts. When she laid eyes on the man it belonged to her breath caught in her throat. She blinked, wondering if maybe she'd dreamed him, but then he flashed her a captivating grin and she realized that he must be real - her mind wasn't capable of conjuring up a smile this heart-stoppingly gorgeous. A pair of vivid blue eyes watched her expectantly as she searched for her voice. "There are lots of other seats available," she finally replied, gesturing to the deserted tables all around them. He shrugged. "I don't want to sit anywhere but here." She moistened her suddenly dry lips. "Why?" "Because none of those other seats are across from you," he said simply.

Detective Inspector Carver took a picture from the breast pocket of his suit. He handed it to me. ‘This is what you did, Michael. Take a good look. See if it jogs your memory.’ I gawped at the mutilated corpse of a naked young girl lying on a blood-soaked double bed. Her hands were bound to the brass headboard with duct tape. Blood covered her upper body, and her long blonde hair was streaked a murderous shade of red. One eye stared at the ceiling as if searching for salvation, the other, a bloody unrecognisable pulp, bore no relation to its sightless counterpart. ‘Carla Marie Coombs. Twenty-one years of age. Do you recognise her, Michael?

He had dreamt about a dark-haired foreign boy. This boy held the key to the undoing of their demise. He had carried his curse for too long. Time was short, the alignment was coming. The vivid dream had spoken to him about Florence. As the sun overshadowed the top of the open-air coliseum, the light briefly hit his three golden symbols. He would need to cover them before he was spotted. Glancing around, he found what he needed. He rolled through the mud until he was coated. On the outside, he was Celestial KittyCat — a black, scrappy, alley cat with a golden brand on his side. A brand of a sun, a star, and a moon all in alignment. On the inside, he was still Patrick, and his heart still yearned for CallaLyly. He scowled as he thought about the curse that was planted by a mystic from the Far East over two and a half centuries ago.

This whole mythology of us that I had built up, our hopes and dreams, likes and dislikes, our plans for the future; a life that had seemed so secure, so sturdy, now collapsed in a matter of seconds - like a house of cards in a gust of wind.

They're more interested in their fucking iPhones than doing their jobs. I can see the glow of their phone screens on their faces as they check e-mail, update their Facebook slaveware, dream of living, breathing, and fucking through the anonymity of text and memes.

Gabriel Edward Mackie, born with soulful maturity and an intrinsic sense of empathy, gazed at life through a poetic contemplative lens relishing the plangent sounds of the wind dancing through the trees during a thunderstorm, inhaling the nutty scent of roasted peanuts at the ballpark, and firmly believing that if he stretched his arms high enough, he could touch his dreams. Driven by his keen curiosity, ability to find a silver lining in the darkest cloud, and vision, he spent boundless energy revering nature’s rarities like the spidery veins in between rose petals and a heron’s powder down feathers.

It must be one of life’s little jokes... how we take everything, even life itself, for granted. We waste our childhoods wishing for what we don’t have, longing for the future, dreaming of ways to speed the time so we can hurry up and see the world. And in our later years, we’d give anything just to slow things down and go back to what we once had.

According to the report, Jane Doe stood no more than five foot one—when standing was still possible. A killer’s dream victim. You couldn’t custom-order one better.

The thriller is not a recent invention. It probably goes back to the dawn of storytelling

A single lie is the father of all lies

When Carri died, I felt like I had lost everything, except my life, and my memories of her. Now I can’t even dream of her...

The only person truly capable of keeping me from fulfilling my dream is me.

Some dreams shouldn't be remembered.

In my dream I drank fully of water, but when I woke, I was thirsty." Ned Low

I knew it was just a dream but it felt real, and sometimes there wasn't a difference between the two.

Sharing your dreams with folks from the hood was always risky because most people don’t believe in the same possibilities I do.

My dreams come alive in my books.

We are everywhere and nowhere.

People never think of a child as being a monster, because if they did, they would never be able to sleep at night. Children are where lies peoples hopes, dreams, innocence... Not where lies murder.

I am no star And I am no calm; I cry all the time Because I don’t like my life I don’t have money; I can’t do anything; I can’t do any other job; Telling stories is all I want Only Dreams Can Cure Me

One day you see a man walking down the road, the next day you come to his yard and find him dead... Why is it that he cannot do what the living do? It is because the thing that gave power to these parts is no longer there. That is the duppy, and that is the most powerful part of any man. Everybody has evil in them, and when a man is alive... he will not abandon himself to many evil things. But when the duppy leaves the body, it no longer has anything to restrain it and it will do more terrible things than any man ever dreamed of. - From 'Tell My Horse: Voodoo and Life in Haiti and Jamaica', Zora Neale Hurston, 1938

When she woke in the morning, there would be no glass on the floor. No comforter lying on the chair. Hawk Cahill, the cowboy hero to the rescue, would have been only a dream in the middle of her waking nightmare.

Or maybe, when all was said and done, the imagination was the most powerful of all weapons. It was the imagination of the human race that had allowed it to dream of a life beyond cold caves and a possible future in the stars.

Everything is an echo of something I once read. Dream, hope, and celebrate life! Love always comes back in a song. One thing we all have in common is a love for food and drink. Memories never die, and dreams never end! What is time?

I am just an ordinary man, who loves to dream , to paint smiles everywhere, loves the smell of wet soil, and the drops of rain . But often I feel that there is something missing, that is essential to feel complete. I am a happy man, but I feel I am an incomplete man too.

One night. One messed-up, beautiful night is all we had together, and yet I feel like I’ve been with him every night since then. Because in many ways, I have. He’s been in my thoughts, my dreams, my memories, like a dark knight who never ever left my side, even when I left his.

Joe wished it had all been just a dream. To think of planes crashing into impossibly-tall towers, of bombs taking out eyes and teeth and fingers, of a silent, secret war he didn’t understand, was to think of fiction, a cheap paperback thriller with a lurid cover. There was – there could be – nothing real about such things.

Idly, in the strange purgatory between reality and the dream realm, I ponder the absurdity of these last few hours. I killed him, we buried him. And yet, our thoughts and actions are as if nothing happened... A sardonic thought settles in the milky haze of my exhausted delirium. I became a woman today. But whose blood truly signified it?

warned him against your play. I said that it was too peculiar for a modern audience and that nobody would understand what you were trying to get at. Is it a comedy? Is it a thriller? What is it, exactly? But he had complete faith in you, and now you turn up with your detective friend and cast aspersions on a man who is absolutely blameless and wouldn’t dream of hurting anyone.

In Moonlight Fear by Stewart Stafford Inexorable as a vampire's invite, The glowing pendulum swung, Crawled towards midnight's toll, My witching hour fever dream. Sleepwalking in sweaty silence, Protection fled to soullessness, No sanctuary in chanted words, Awakening warning on the floor. Spider's web tightrope to a sound, Path blocked by an unseen form, Driven out in the Lord's name, Receding growls echoed isolation. © Stewart Stafford, 2024. All rights reserved.

When longing overtook them, they drew together and made the most intense and tender love Sarah had ever known. She was a freshly exposed nerve in the bleeding heart of Christ. He was devout in his reverent passion as her healer. Their love was a hallelujah chorus, a quiet prayer of exaltation, a holy union in the moonlight before dawn. It was here in this crystalline space that Sarah and Johnny took each other the true way to God, or they found God in each other, whichever it was.

Other books depended less on personal contacts than on certain abiding concerns. Early in his career, Dreiser had become interested in a crime that he saw as a dark version of the American success motif: the murder of a woman who stood in the way of her lover’s dreams of social and material advancement through a more advantageous marriage. For An American Tragedy (1925) he investigated numerous case histories, many of them sensational murders involving well-known figures such as Roland Molineux and Harry Thaw. He finally settled on the 1906 Chester Gillette trial for the murder of Grace Brown that occurred in the lake district of upstate New York. The novel benefited from the popular interest in criminal biography, a form to which Dreiser’s masterpiece gave new life as the progenitor of documentary novels of crime such as Richard Wright’s Native Son, Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood, and Norman Mailer’s The Executioner’s Song. The Cambridge Companion to Theodore Dreiser

The invisible shipwrecks of my life are scattered all over this secluded bay with its infamous black sand. They are a sad reminder of all the journeys I was too scared to make. Everyone's life has uncharted waters- the places and people you didn't quite manage to find- but when you feel as though you never will, it's a special kind of sorrow. The unexplored oceans of our hearts and minds are normally the result of a lack of time and trust in the dreams we dreamed as children. But adults forget how to believe that their dreams might still come true.

He could not have faced her right then. He had started to sense their relationship was over, that she wanted more than he could ever give her. They hardly saw each other any longer, had nothing much to discuss, and had even ceased doing the one thing they were good at. Still, to smell the sheets where she had lain brought him a certain peace, lulling him to sleep under the veil of her perfume. He dreamed they were married, running beneath a flurry of white rose petals, and then a door slammed shut, and suddenly he was awake. He was back at Cedar House, and it was night and the room was dark.

Something strange happens about dreams that Gloria has – the real world seems to get mixed up into the dreams and the dreams seem all the more real – with part of your mind you’re aware of what’s going on around you, but part of your mind is drifting and things start to get mixed up. What I’m trying to say is that the human mind has developed a safety valve and dreaming is really the unconscious mind (me in this case) clearing up the debris it has otherwise been unable to cope with on the conscious level – if this is so, then tonight’s dreams became like “a horror show” in which Gloria and I were literally imprisoned.” Gloria’s Helper

The remaining chain swung down, he wrenched the door out and he was free. The last thing he heard behind him was the oncoming stomp of running feet. Now began flight, that excruciating accompaniment to both the sleep-dream and the drug-dream as well. Down endless flights of stairs that seemed to have increased decimally since he had come up them so many days before. Four, fourteen, forty - there seemed no end to them, no bottom. Round and round he went, hand slapping at the worn guard-rail only at the turns to keep from bulleting head-on into the wall each time. The clamor had come out onto a landing high above him now, endless miles above him; a thin voice came shouting down the stair-well, "There he is! See him down there?" raising the hue and cry to the rest of the pack. Footsteps started cannonading down after him, like avenging thunder from on high. They only added wings to his effortless, almost cascading waterlike flight. Like a drunk, he was incapable of hurting himself. At one turning he went off his feet and rippled down the whole succeeding flight of stair-ribs like a wriggling snake. Then he got up again and plunged ahead, without consciousness of pain or smart. The whole staircase-structure seemed to hitch crazily from side to side with the velocity of his descent, but it was really he that was hitching. But behind him the oncoming thunder kept gaining. Then suddenly, after they'd kept on for hours, the stairs suddenly ended, he'd reached bottom at last. He tore out through a square of blackness at the end of the entrance-hall, and the kindly night received him, took him to itself - along with countless other things that stalk and kill and are dangerous if crossed. He had no knowledge of where he was; if he'd ever had, he'd lost it long ago. The drums of pursuit were still beating a rolling tattoo inside the tenement. He chose a direction at random, fled down the deserted street, the wand of light from a wan street-lamp flicking him in passing, so fast did he scurry by beneath it.

The only good thing to come out of it was a kind of wisdom in Hirsch. He’d grown to understand that police officers can drift over time, and it isn’t always or entirely conscious but a loss of perspective. Real and imagined grievances develop, a feeling that the job deserved greater and better public recognition. Rewards, for example, in the form of more money, more or better sex, a promotion, a junket to an interstate conference, greater respect in general. Some of these rewards were graspable, others the thwarted dreams that drove their grievances. Cynism set it. The bad guys always got away with it, and the media seized on the police officer who took a bribe rather than the one who helped orphans. So why not take shortcuts and bend the rules??

Evil takes only prisoners….Time takes none." From The Tenth, chapter 28.

I had finally become aware of how much I was capable of, how little I had to lose, and how deep into Douglas's soft sand I had sunk. Magellan's letters, which Douglas had recited, had become part of my being. It was as if I was right there with Magellan, following every curve of his pen as he wrote down his words to his beloved ones confiding his secret. I had become the ink, and the tip was tattooing my path. I was going to follow his dream, but still, I wished I knew why.

Butt fucking the American dream so you can buy cheap T-shirts at Old Navy. Isn't life beautiful?

thousands, and perhaps millions, of people. It was a dream come true. “But,” she told me on the phone, “there’s one problem with your book.” “What’s that?” I said, my euphoria fading. “It’s too short. Can you add another fifteen thousand words?” Fifteen thousand more words? I was dumbfounded. I didn’t understand why I had to add 15,000 words to a book that seemed perfect as it was. “It has to do with the cost of paper,” Laura explained, "and retail price points, and so on.

You’ve made a terrible mistake.

Everything was going to be all right, she told herself. Every woman got wedding jitters, right? Every woman felt a little nauseated at the thought of her first love on her wedding day. Every woman saw herself lying face down, dead in a pond.

What man didn’t join his wife on their wedding night?

The new Mrs. Ethan Baxter, I presume?” “Was there an old Mrs. Baxter?” she asked. He merely laughed.

You know that if I ever do settle down with some woman, Lillie is going to come after you next,” Hawk said. “She’s relentless. She’ll have you married within weeks after I tie the knot. Mark my words.” He took another drink and swallowed. “Be afraid. Be very afraid.

Turning, she saw a crow staring at her from the balcony with its beady little dark eyes. The bird flapped its silken ebony wings at her and hopped to the chair closest to the open door. Wasn’t there some superstition about crows and death?

You know what I want?” Drey asked. “Name it.” Hawk knew he would move heaven and earth if she asked him. She stood and started taking off her clothes. “I’m not sure where exactly this is headed, but I’m liking it,” he said.

His eyes, staring out at her from the photograph, looked – she searched for another word to describe them and failed – he looked evil. There was a blankness to him, as if the normal human emotions that you took for granted in everyone you met had been excised. It was the kind of stare you might see in a wolf or a shark; a creature who did not care how kind you were, what your story was, the dreams you had for your child.

The world need more honest, authentic, rational, confident, well-rounded, balanced, humble, intelligent polite, kind people, people that do not play with others feelings and dreams. People that lift others up. Happy people full of patriotism, love and dreams. People able to see into others eyes, suffering, despair and do something about it. We need real people. CIA is not a game, an action movie, a thriller book, a video game. CIA is a place of people with integrity, fighters of freedom and peace. CIA should be a role model agency, stopping all this evil that we find around us. Stopping those making fun of others lives and dreams. A place where all the good things in the world converge. We have to do something to make all the social media more safe. We have to remove all the toxic and manipulators out there from here. I am waiting for your next post, I always find inspiration by reading you. I am so far from my dreams and so close to them at the same time. See you soon. Keep up the good work.

Wait. Didn’t you say Simon was in his underwear?” “Yeah. Christmas green boxers with an explosion of red and white candy canes. So?” “So there you go, the audience was just as naked as you were. Problem solved.

I hadn’t thought about prom, Bailey, or that car crash in years. I’d been under the assumption that therapy had wiped it from my mind completely. The search for Lizzie was doing something to me. Causing me to regress, in a way. Bailey Shepherd was no one to me, but at the same time, she was everything. My cause and value of life forever changed by a girl buried in a labyrinth of gnarled alloy and gasoline.

A cool white, wintry light glazed the buildings on the highest hill: Will’s memorial, the unsightly chimney from the hospital, the modernist cathedral in Clifton. The jumble of styles and eras lent the city the semblance of a medieval Roman town. Laura drove the long way round, up past the Clifton Suspension Bridge, strung like an a engineer’s dream over a river sinking into the mud. Leigh Woods was on the far side, the trees dark, bereft of leaves, clawing at the sky.

Those who stop dreaming are lost

Lou sat on the dock and stared into the blue depths of Waterton Lake to where a figure floated under the surface. It was the woman who’d walked into Emerald Bay, her pockets full of stones, but in the dream, the woman’s face was a mirror of Lou’s own.

No doctor can help me My only doctor is my dreams

It bloomed in the bleak soil where her darkest dreams were born. Dire petals. Bloody thorns. An emotion perfectly cultivated. Sculpted with the violence she adored.

The truth is, the idea of equality is a myth. As long as there are people who have hate in their hearts for people just because they may not look like them, and those people are put into positions of authority over others, inequality will continue. As long as people are teaching their children to hate others because of the color of their skin or who they pray to at night, that fabled equality people dream of will remain forever out of reach.

You don’t mourn the end, Bob. You mourn the beginning. You mourn the spark, the rush of attraction, the addiction of hope, and the danger of dreams.

She was the creator of her own religion: she’d taken the crude reality of her hard life, the mystical peace of mind coming from her personal divine beliefs, and the hopes and dreams she’d had, and applied her logic and intelligence to build her own life paradigm. A strategic, intelligent cocoon in which she, and only she, could feel comfortable and happy. The rest – the life and personal struggle of other people – was only external noise around her being, tangential and completely harmless.

Coming to terms with his curse, Adrian resigned himself to do the work. He allowed himself to see and feel the dead in his dreams and, in turn, find them and set them free. Accepting his burden as one spurred by love, he saw it was not the worst fate to have. Nonetheless, he distanced himself from the living, preferring to exist as a self-exiled wanderer rather than be cast out by others.

The American author Guy Murchie had another interesting perspective on the subject. And I quote: ‘If you were God, could you possibly dream up any more educational, contrasted, thrilling, beautiful, tantalizing world than Earth? If you think you could, do you imagine you would be outdoing Earth if you designed a world free of germs, diseases, poisons, pain, malice, explosives, and conflict—so its people could relax and enjoy it? Would you, in other words, try to make the world nice and safe? Or would you let it be provocative, dangerous, and exciting?

I personally understand how challenging it can be to pursue your dreams. Don’t quit. It takes incredible strength and dedication to stay committed to your path, especially when you’re faced with obstacles in life or doubts from others. Remember, your journey is unique, and it's okay if it doesn't always make sense to everyone around you. It's natural to feel overwhelmed by the time, effort, or resources required, but please don't lose your heart. Be gentle with yourself as you navigate your journey, and know that your perseverance is admirable.

...perhaps that was where reality began, and I was the one trapped in an uneven, unending dream.

How did he die? The question pushes itself whilst in my mind. I want to ask her. I want to ask her so, so bad. Ottie’s mention of it in the dream: the fragments of my cognitively-created film torture me while my mother brings up Cace, over, and over, and over again, yet never fully reaching a consensus about the whole topic. What is she trying to entail? What is she thinking? I want to ask her the question. But don’t you already know the answer?

In the conversation, every single detail of Ottie’s dialogue: her body language, her tones, and her ways of story-telling, in a sense, are identical to how they have been briefly displayed in my dreams—dreams that I hesitate to mention and decide not to yet. Ottie brings up another topic briefly.

An atom is as true as a grain of sand and yet The former can ne’er be felt until the mingling Of many in unison Lends form and substance to the invisible ---Dreams---

I wake and in those first fuddled moments forget you’re not here. I must have been dreaming about you – a tense, erotic dream. I reach out in bed to the place your body should be. It’s cold and there is no hollow. Even the bed is forgetting you.

Life is like a dream, when you wake up, you only have memories.

Love at first sight is a polite phrase used when one wants to fuck a stranger.

think Collins is going down in defeat due to his inept handling of the economy, even more intrusive government regulations, and letting other countries dictate to the United States what we should be doing. It’s apparent he doesn’t believe in American exceptionalism or the American Dream, and he seems to think we’re just another country. Through the mainstream media, his underlings constantly attack Conservatives and Independents without regard to the facts; it’s all about feelings for them. I was treated to the same kind of vitriol when his people took me down.

To write a novel is to dream while awake, then express the dream to the reader in an absorbing way. The road leading from the writer's inner world to the readers' is paved with prose.