The Dreamer Quotes

“Which is sharper? The hatchet that cuts down dreams? Or the scythe that clears a path for another?”
― Pam Muñoz Ryan, The Dreamer

“Pablo Neruda's poems tramped through the mud [with the fieldworker]...knocked at the doors of mansions...sat at the table of the baker...The shopkeeper leaned over his counter and read them to his customers and said "Do you know him? He is my brother."

The poems became books that people passed from hand to hand. The books traveled over fences... and bridges... and across borders... soaring from continent to continent... until he had passed thousands of gifts through a hole in the fence to a multitude of people in every corner of the world.”
― Pam Muñoz Ryan, The Dreamer

“Does a metamorphosis begin from the outside in? Or from the inside out?”
― Pam Muñoz Ryan, The Dreamer

“The words he had written wiggled off the page and escaped from the drawer. The letters stacked themselves, one on top of the other. Their towers reached higher and higher until they stood majestic and tall, surrounding Neftali in a city of promise. HUMANITY. SOLIDARITY. GENEROSITY. PEACE. JUSTICE. LOVE. Then a tiny, conceited word came along. Like a hungry termite, it began to gnaw on the tall words, chewing at their foundation, gulping their pulp until they swayed, toppled, and collapsed. All that remained was one fat, satisfied syllable. FEAR.”
― Pam Muñoz Ryan, The Dreamer

“I am poetry,
surrounding the dreamer,
Ever present,
I capture the spirit,
enslave
the reluctant pen,
and become
the breath
on the writer's only road.”
― Pam Muñoz Ryan, The Dreamer

“Pablo Neruda's poems tramped through the mud [with the fieldworker]...knocked at the doors of mansions...sat at the table of the baker...The shopkeeper leaned over his counter and read them to his customers...The poems became books that people passed from hand to hand. The books traveled over fences. and bridges. and across borders. soaring from continent to continent. until he had passed thousands of gifts through a hole in the fence to a multitude of people in every corner of the world.”
― Pam Muñoz Ryan, The Dreamer

“Although he had changed his name, his history came with him, even to his writing. The rhythm of his rain-soaked childhood became a sequence of words. His memories of the understory of the great forest burst into lyrical phrases, as resinous as the sap of a pinecone, as crisp as the shell of a beetle. Sentences grew long, then pulled up short, taking on the tempo of the waves upon the shore, or swayed gently, like the plaintive song of a lone harmonica. His fury became essays that pointed, stabbed, and burned. His convictions played out with the monotonous determination of a printing press. And his affections became poems, as warm and supple as the wool of a well-loved sheep.”
― Pam Muñoz Ryan, The Dreamer

“Netfali's breath caught in his throat at the sight of the infinite colors and the gentle curve of the faraway horizon. He had never imagined the height of the white spray breaking against the rocks, the dark sand, or the air that whispered of fish and salt. He stood, captivated, feeling small and insignificant, and at the same time as if he belonged to something much grander.”
― Peter Sis, The Dreamer

“What grows [from] the dark soil of disappointment?”
― Pam Muñoz Ryan, The Dreamer

“The words he had written wiggled off the page and escaped from the drawer. The letters stacked themselves, one on top of the other. Their towers reached higher and higher until they stood majestic and tall, surrounding Neftali in a city of promise.”
― Pam Muñoz Ryan, The Dreamer

“As their shoulders touched, the riverboat was no longer earthbound. With only the two of them aboard, it lifted into the sky, navigating a sea of white billows. The boy was the figurehead beneath the bowsprit, eyes searching for the way. Neftali was the paddle wheel, moving them forward as one ancient spirit.”
― Pam Muñoz Ryan, The Dreamer

“Neftalí reached out and hugged Mamadre's neck tight. He wanted to tell her how much he loved her. He wanted to tell her he was sorry for being angry with her and not talking to her. But his overwhelming emotions stood in the way of his words.
'There now. Let's go inside,' she said.
But Neftalí wasn't ready to let her go. He needed one more moment. He whispered in her ear, 'It is not true what they say.'
'And what is that, my son?'
A tear ran down his cheek. 'Swans do not sing when they die.”
― Pam Muñoz Ryan, The Dreamer

“Uncle Orlando held up his hand to stop Neftalí's ranting. He walked to a mound of smoking ash and kicked it with his boot. Underneath, glowing embers pulsed like a heart. 'You are wrong. Just like Mount Llaima, there is always something burning beneath the surface. Sometimes it takes years to erupt. But, eventually, it will. Nephew, they may have silenced La Mañana, but they will never silence my pen.' He extended his outstretched hand to Neftalí.
Neftalí looked into his uncle's determined face.
He did not see a man defeated by exhaustion. He saw a man ready to fight another day. He did not see a man covered head to toe in soot. He saw a man covered in righteousness.
He did not see a man's red and blurry eyes. He saw an intense resolve to speak for those who could not speak for themselves.
Neftalí reached out and gripped his uncle's palm and held it tight. 'Nor will they silence mine.”
― Pam Muñoz Ryan, The Dreamer

“Neftalí reached out and hugged Mamadre's neck tight. He wanted to tell her how much he loved her. He wanted to tell her he was sorry for being angry with her and not talking to her. But his overwhelming emotions stood in the way of his words.”
― Pam Muñoz Ryan, The Dreamer