Emotions and Feelings

A show of envy is an insult to oneself.

An envious heart makes a treacherous ear.

We often pride ourselves on even the most criminal passions, but envy is a timid and shame-faced passion we never dare acknowledge.

The envious die not once, but as often as the envied win applause.

Envy is a littleness of soul, which cannot see beyond a certain point, and if it does not occupy the whole space, feels itself excluded.

Few men have the strength of character to rejoice in a friend’s success without a touch of envy.

Every great and commanding movement in the annals of the world is the triumph of some enthusiasm.

Enthusiasm is the great hill-climber.

Enthusiasm is the great hill-climber.

In the drowsy dark caves of the mind dreams build their nest with fragments dropped from day’s caravan.

In bed my real love has always been the sleep that rescued me by allowing me to dream.

The dream is the small hidden door in the deepest and most intimate sanctum of the soul, which opens to that primeval cosmic night that was soul long before there was conscious ego.

Dreams are the true interpreters of our inclinations; but there is art required to sort and understand them.

You have to have a dream so you can get up in the morning.

You have to have a dream so you can get up in the morning.

Dreams wherein we often see ourselves in masquerade.

Throw your dream into space like a kite, and you do not know what it will bring back, a new life, a new friend, a new love, or a new country.

Throw your dream into space like a kite, and you do not know what it will bring back, a new life, a new friend, a new love, or a new country.

Dreams come true; without that possibility, nature would not incite us to have them.

Dreams come true; without that possibility, nature would not incite us to have them.

What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore— And then run? Does it stink like rotten meat? Or crust and sugar over— like a syrupy sweet? Maybe it just sags Like a heavy load. Or does it explode?

What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore— And then run? Does it stink like rotten meat? Or crust and sugar over— like a syrupy sweet? Maybe it just sags Like a heavy load. Or does it explode?

Dreams nourish the soul just as food nourishes the body.

Doubt must be no more than vigilance, otherwise it can become dangerous.