Umberto Eco Quotes

Dreams have only the pigmentation of fact.

Common sense tells us that the things of the earth exist only a little, and that true reality is only in dreams.

Dreams are not without meaning wherever thay may come from-from fantasy, from the elements, or from other inspiration.

It is one of the blessings of this world that few people see visions and dream dreams.

The dreams are the skeleton of all reality.

When you have spent an important part of your life playing Let's Pretend, it's often easy to see symbolism where none exists.

Fiction reveals truth that reality obscures.

Our dreams drench us in sense, and sense steeps us again in dreams.

Perhaps life is just that... a dream and a fear.

Dreams say what they mean, but they don't say it in daytime language.

Dreams are illustrations from the book your soul is writing about you.

Dreams have always expanded our understanding of reality by challenging our boundaries of the real, of the possible.

Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in dreams?

There are other relations besides reality, which the mind is capable of grasping and which also are primary, like chance, illusion, the fantastic, the dream.

Religions are such stuff as dreams are made of.

Facts are the barren branches on which we hang the dear, obscuring foliage of our dreams.

Truth is inseperable from the illusory belief that from the figures of the unreal one day, in spite of all, real deliverance will come.

The theater itself is a lie. Its deaths are mere special effects. Its tales never happened. Even the histories are distorted for dramatic effect. The theater is unnatural, a place of imagination. But the theater tells the audience something true: that the world requires judgments.

O reason, reason, abstract phantom of the waking state, I had already expelled you from my dreams, now I have reached a point where those dreams are about to become fused with apparent realities: now there is only room here for myself.

Babies, babies, babies! They're everywhere, aren't they? In our eyes, in our thoughts, in our arms, in our dreams. Sometimes, in our dreams, they are riding alpacas or juggling tacos - but that doesn't mean those dreams are necessarily about babies. Look, I'm not Freud.

Life is only a dream and we are the imagination of ourselves.

The longer you look at an object, the more abstract it becomes, and, ironically, the more real.

A poet must be a psychologist, but a secret one: he should know and feel the roots of phenomena but present only the phenomena themselves in full bloom or as they fade away.

The best monsters are our anxieties given form. They make sense on the level of a dream - or a nightmare.

Reality leaves a lot to the imagination.