Frederic Chopin Quotes

I write because I can’t sleep.

I put a piece of paper under my pillow, and when I could not sleep I wrote in the dark.

People dramatically underestimate how much sleep is linked to all the diseases killing us. We know a lack of sleep is linked to numerous forms of cancer - bowel, prostate, breast cancer.

Sleep is probably my favorite activity. I wrote this piece out of gratitude that I'm able to sleep well as an offering to people who don't.

I've been waiting for sleep to offer up the day with both hands.

Sleep and watchfulness, both of them, when immoderate, constitute disease.

The worst thing in the world is to try to sleep and not to.

My trouble is insomnia. If I had always slept properly, I'd never have written a line.

Not being able to sleep is terrible. You have the misery of having partied all night... Without the satisfaction.

Sleep is like a cat: It only comes to you if you ignore it.

You can’t imagine the white-hot fury someone who can’t sleep has toward the beautiful dreamer beside him.

It's no good. I've been trying to sleep for the last half-hour, and I can't. Writing here is a sort of drug. It's the only thing I look forward to. This afternoon I read what I wrote... And it seemed vivid. I know it seems vivid because my imagination fills in all the bits another person wouldn't understand. I mean, it's vanity. But it seems a sort of magic... And I just can't live in this present. I would go mad if I did

Although she was giddy with exhaustion, sleep was a lover who refused to be touched.

There are some nights when sleep plays coy, aloof and disdainful. And all the wiles that I employ to win its service to my side are useless as wounded pride, and much more painful.

The hard part for me is rest. I am a person who stays up late. If I go to bed early, I don't sleep, but I know I have to rest. That is always a struggle for me.

Am I sleeping? Have I slept at all? This is insomnia.

Anticipation is a bad sleeping draught.

I can't sleep. Too many thoughts running through my useless head.

I never sleep, cause sleep is the cousin of death.

To write is to pour one’s innermost self passionately upon the tempting paper, at such frantic speed that sometimes one’s hand struggles and rebels, overdriven by the impatient god which guides it - and to find, next day, in place of the golden bough that bloomed miraculously in that dazzling hour, a withered bramble and a stunted flower.

So it comes to this; one doesn’t need rest. Why bother about sleep if one isn’t sleepy? That stands to reason, doesn’t it? Wait a minute, there’s a snag somewhere; something disagreeable. Why, now, should it be disagreeable? …Ah, I see; it’s life without a break.

I've dreamed a lot, but i'm not a very good sleeper.

He would lie in the bed and finally, with daylight, he would go to sleep. After all, he said to himself, it is probably only insomnia. Many must have it.

The midnight disease is a kind of emotional insomnia; at ever conscious moment its victim—even if he or she writes at dawn, or in the middle of the afternoon—feels like a person lying in a sweltering bedroom, with the window thrown open, looking up at a sky filled with stars and airplanes, listening to the narrative of a rattling blind, an ambulance, a fly trapped in a Coke bottle, while all around him the neighbours soundly sleep.