A Quote by David Foster Wallace

We are not dead but asleep, dreaming of ourselves. — © David Foster Wallace
We are not dead but asleep, dreaming of ourselves.
The lives of most people are small tight pallid and sad, more to be mourned than their deaths. We starve at the banquet: We cannot see that there is a banquet because seeing the banquet requires that we see also ourselves sitting there starving-seeing ourselves clearly, even for a moment, is shattering. We are not dead but asleep, dreaming of ourselves.
Emma was no asleep, she was pretending to be asleep; and, while he was dozing off at her side, she lay awake, dreaming other dreams.
Asleep vision (dreaming) is perception that is not tied down to anything in the real world; waking perception is something like dreaming with a little more commitment to what's in front of you.
Some people know they are dreaming when they are asleep. You must also know you are dreaming when you wake-up. When you know you are dreaming when you wake up, then you are really waking up
The power of the dead is that we think they see us all the time. The dead have a presence. Is there a level of energy composed solely of the dead? They are also in the ground, of course, asleep and crumbling. Perhaps we are what they dream.
Your wits can't thicken in that soft moist air, on those white springy roads, in those misty rushes and brown bogs, on those hillsides of granite rocks and magenta heather. You've no such colours in the sky, no such lure in the distances, no such sadness in the evenings. Oh the dreaming! the dreaming! the torturing, heart-scalding, never satisfying dreaming, dreaming, dreaming, dreaming!
Sometimes we don't know we're dreaming; we can't even fathom that we're asleep.
You are asleep and have forgetten that you are dreaming. You mistakenly believe you are awake.
We are asleep people, unconscious people, and this is what is serious. Unfortunately, we think the best of ourselves and not even suspect that we are asleep.
Has my heart gone to sleep? Have the beehives of my dreams stopped working, the waterwheel of the mind run dry, scoops turning empty, only shadow inside? No, my heart is not asleep. It is awake, wide awake. Not asleep, not dreaming— its eyes are opened wide watching distant signals, listening on the rim of vast silence
She was sound asleep when he came to curl up next to her. She grunted. "Don't worry. I'm too drunk, I won't do anything," he murmered. As she had her back to him, he placed his nose on her neck and slid his arm underneath her to be as close to her as possible. Short strands of her hair tickled his nostrils. "Camille?" Was she asleep? Was she pretending? No answer either way. "I like being with you." A little smile. Was she dreaming? Was she asleep? Who knows.
What's so horrible about being dead forever, and not feeling anything, and not even dreaming? What's so great about feeling and dreaming?
Lulled by stupefying illusions, the world is asleep in the cradle of infancy, dreaming away the hours.
We are asleep. Our Life is a dream. But we wake up sometimes, just enough to know that we are dreaming.
You're dead," I repeated. "So why are you in my dream?" He raised the bill of his olive drab ball cap with one finger. " Good question. Morbid, isn't it?" "What?" "Dreaming about dead peolpe. Creepy. You ever see a therapist about that?" "I'm not -" Even in dreams, I couldn't win an argument. Even when he was dead.
If we can't wake up to the fact that deep down inside we are good, then we deserve to remain asleep dreaming we are evil.
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