Quotes About Fantasy

And as for fairy tales, he understood that they were reflections of the people who had spun them, and were flecked with little truths—intrusions of reality into fantasy, like… toast crumbs on a wizard's beard.

Strange the dreamer," they called him. "That dreamer, Strange.

Plants...dreamed they were birds...and they found rich soil and sweet seas and plants that dreamed they were birds and drifted up to the clouds on leaves like wings.

Beautiful and full of monsters?" "All the best stories are.

Dream up something wild and improbable.

Do you know what they're called? They're the Shadows That Live, Zuze. They're assassins." "Like me," said Zuzanna cheerfully.

It wasn't simply a question of parlors and tea trays - though there was that, too. If she were coming in reality he would be limited by reality. But dreams were a different matter. He was Strange the Dreamer. This was his realm, and there were no limits here.

What do you think I live on, rainwater and daydreams?

Humans have gotten glimpses of things over time," he'd said. "Just enough to make the rest up. It's all a quilt of fairy tales with a patch here and there of truth." "So what's real?" she'd wanted to know. "If you can kill it, or it can kill you, it's real.

It was only an illusion, but a perfect illusion.

It was impossible of course, but when did that ever stop any dreamer from dreaming?

from the Usko Remarroth, where it was ever twilight—blue.

am priestess of a sandcastle in a land of dust and starlight.

Here, captured between covers, was the history of the human imagination, and nothing had ever been more beautiful, or fearsome, or bizarre.

De su hombro colgaba un portafolio de dibujo y sobre su pelo - largo, suelto y de color azul eléctrico - se había formado un encaje de copos de nieve.

Como si aquel lugar fuera un cuento dedicado a ella.

Hieronymus Bosch

Bienvenidos a Eretz. —Olvida el pegaso —exclamó Zuzana con fervor y los ojos muy abiertos—. ¡Yo quiero uno de esos!

Dreams have their rhythms, their deeps and shallows.

It's all a quilt of fairy tales with a patch here and there of truth.

It was impossible, of course. But when did that ever stop a dreamer from dreaming.

Small! I'm mot going to be small anymore. I'm going to be a dragon, with wings like lacquer fans and jets of fire breath for roasting up goose suppers midair!" Pippin spread out her arms, imagining them wings. Why not? she asked herself.

Sex has to do with imagination, so the sky is the limit. If you're not doing bodily harm, why shouldn't you do what turns you on?

There is no miserable place waiting for you, no hell realm, sitting and waiting like Alaska—waiting to turn you into ice cream. But whatever you call it—hell or the suffering realms—it is something that you enter by creating a world of neurotic fantasy and believing it to be real. It sounds simple, but that's exactly what happens.