Chapter Seventeen
“Does Mr. Rogers know you’re at a party again?”
“Mr. Rogers?” I look back up at him. I don’t get it.
“Your boyfriend. He is the biggest tool I have ever seen.”
“Don’t talk about him like that, he is . . . he is . . . nice,” I stutter. When Hardin laughs, I stand up. He doesn’t know Noah at all. “You could only dream of being as nice as he is,” I say sharply.
“Nice? That’s the first word that comes to your mind when talking about your boyfriend? Nice is your ‘nice’ way of calling him boring.”
Gallery Books - kindle
"Never in a dream could I have invented such a threatening atmosphere holding so many seemingly gentle people."
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"I had a lovely dream," Bill said. "I don't remember what it was about, but it was a lovely dream."
"I don't think I dreamt."
"You ought to dream," Bill said. "All our biggest business men have been dreamers. Look at Ford. Look at President Coolidge. Look at Rockefeller.
Look at Jo Davidson."
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"You knowwhat I have? Toward this Pris android?”
“Empathy,” he said.
“Something like that. Identification; there goes I. My god; maybe that’s what’ll happen. In the confusion you’ll retire me, not her. And she can go back to Seattle and live my life. I never felt this way before. We are machines, stamped out like bottle caps. It’s an illusion that I—I personally—really exist; I’m just representative of a type.” She shuddered.
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He kisses me without me ever answering his question. There’s no point. With Liam, everything is exactly how I want it. He’s the man I want to spend all my time with. The man who continues to grow into a better person each day, no longer plagued by his past. The same one I dream of marrying one day.
Liam is right. I don’t need to wish on stars when I already have everything I could dream of.
I’ve dreamed a lot. I’m tired now from dreaming but not tired of dreaming. No one tires of dreaming, because to dream is to forget, and forgetting does not weigh on us, it is a dreamless sleep throughout which we remain awake. In dreams I have achieved everything
When I'm building a Dream Team, I give potential partners what I call the Doofus Test. I put them in a conflict-of-interest bind or time constriction which requires them to make a decision and take action. I schedule meetings on early Sunday mornings or Saturday nights. I find out when they have birthdays or anniversaries, so I can set up meetings that screw up party plans. Okay, I'm a son-of-a-bitch, but the Doofus Test gives me two essential pieces of information about people: First, how they react under emotional pressure, and second, how committed they are to me and my agenda. Sure, it's fine if they've promised to take their kid to a ball game and can't change their plans. But they can't work for Dan Peña. Otherwise, down the line, they might have the birth of their first child take precedence over all of us making millions of dollars!
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The Five Credos of Success
1. Yesterday's dreams are today's realities.
2. See your dreams ahead of time now: This is a call to action. Don't just talk about dreaming. Dream! Virtually everything I've accomplished of any consequence I visualized and dreamed of before it happened.
3. Simulation - Practice within when
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Experiences in a concentration camp
F----, my senior block warden, a fairly well-known composer and librettist, confided in me one day: "I would like to tell you something, Doctor. I have had a strange dream. A voice told me that I could wish for something, that I should only say what I wanted to know, and all my questions would be answered. What do you think I asked? That I would like to know when the war would be over for me. You know what I mean, Doctor - for me! I wanted to know when we, when our camp, would be liberated and our sufferings come to an end."
"And when did you have this dream?" I asked.
"In February, 1945," he answered. It was then the beginning of March.
"What did your dream voice answer?"
Furtively he whispered to me, "March thirtieth."
When F---- told me about his dream, he was still full of hope and convinced that the voice of his dream would be right. But as the promised day drew nearer, the war news which reached our camp made it appear very unlikely that we would be free on the promised date. On March twenty-ninth, F---- suddenly became ill and ran a high temperature. On March thirtieth, the day his prophecy had told him that the war and suffering would be over for him, he became delirious and lost consciousness. On March thirty-first, he was dead. To all outward appearances, he had died of typhus.
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"To think you could have been dreaming the cure for cancer," Blue said.
"Look, Sargent," Ronan retorted, "I was gonna dream you some eye cream last night since clearly modern medicine's doing jack shit for you, but I nearly had my ass handed to me by a death snake from the fourth circle of dream hell, so you're welcome."
Blue was appropriately touched. "Ah, thanks, man."
"No problem, bro."
