— Are you an idiot?
— No, sir, I'm a dreamer.
It does not to dwell on dreams, Harry, and forget to live.
When that breaks down, and it always does, the dreamer returns to the world.
That other world of flesh into which has been woven pride and greed looks askance at the idealist, the dreamer.
If one says it is sweet to look at the clouds, the answer is a warning against idleness.
If one seeks to give ear to the winds, it shall be well with his soul, but they will seize upon his possessions.
If all the world of the so-called inanimate delay one, calling with tenderness in sounds that seem to be too perfect to be less than understanding, it shall be ill with the body.
The hands of the actual are forever reaching toward such as these—forever seizing greedily upon them.
It is of such that the bond servants are made.
For a while these reveries provided an outlet for his imagination; they were a satisfactory hint of the unreality of reality, a promise that the rock of the world was founded securely on a fairy’s wing.
— Is the Nobel Prize paid in installments, or in a lump sum like the lottery?
— Let's not get ahead of ourselves. Here. My office.
— I'm not getting ahead of myself. I'm concerned about the tax consequences.
Tous les honneurs, toutes les femmes.
Quand je suis seul, je fais au plus brave un défi;
Je m écarte, je vais détrôner le Sophi;
On m'élit Roi, mon peuple m'aime;
Les diadèmes vont sur ma tête pleuvant:
Quelque accident fait-il
que je rentre en moi-même;
Je suis gros Jean comme devant.
I always drag myself into it. I always let him call me extraordinary and partly believe it. I always jump with the conviction that he will catch me, and I fall. I'm hopeless. I am a romantic and a dreamer, and one day it will ruin me.