Quotes About Imagination

Anna imagines Antonius Diogenes, whoever he was, setting knife to quill, quill to ink, ink to scroll, placing one more barricade in front of Aethon, stretching time for another purpose: to detain his niece in the living world for a little longer.

Each of these books, child, is a door, a gateway to another place and time. You have your whole life in front of you, and for all of it, you'll have this. It will be enough, don't you think?

It was enough when Werner was a boy, wasn't it? A world of wildflowers blooming up through the shapes of rusty cast-off parts. A world of berries and carrot peels and Frau Elena's fairy tales. Of the sharp smell of tar, and trains passing, and bees humming in the window boxes. String and spit and wire and a voice on the radio offering a loom on which to spin his dreams.

She has no memories of her mother but imagines her as white, a soundless brilliance.

The eggs taste like clouds. Like spun gold. […] Marie-Laure can hear a can opening, juice slopping into a bowl. Seconds later, she's eating wedges of wet sunlight.

that a story is a way of stretching time.

It doesn't hurt, she explains. And there is no darkness, not the kind they imagine. Everything is composed of webs and lattices and upheavals of sound and texture.

suave y con acento. «Niños, el cerebro está envuelto por una oscuridad total —dice la voz—. Flota en un líquido transparente en el interior del cráneo y jamás recibe luz. Pero a pesar de eso el mundo que construye en nuestra mente está lleno de luz, rebosante de colores y de movimiento. ¿Cómo puede ser que el cerebro, que jamás conoce una chispa de luz, construya en nuestro interior un

And yet by early autumn, once or twice a week, at certain moments of the day, sitting out in the Jardin des Plantes beneath the massive hedges or reading beside her father's workbench, Marie-Laure looks up from her book and believes she can smell gasoline under the wind. As if a great river of machinery is steaming slowly, irrevocably, toward her.

Gulls pass, braying like donkeys, and in the distance the guns thud again, and the rattling of the truck fades, and Marie-Laure tries to concentrate on rereading a chapter earlier in the novel: make the raised dots form letters, the letters words, the words a world.

When I dream, I dream I am in the museum.

raised dots form letters, the letters words, the words a world.

And the tale I have to tell is so ludicrous, so incredible, that you'll never believe a word of it, and yet' – she taps the end of his nose – 'it's true.

Bernd molders in the corner. Jutta moves through the world somewhere, watching shadows disentangle themselves from night, watching minders limp past in the dawnn. It was enough when Werner was a boy, wasn't it? A world of wildflowers blooming up through the shapes of rusty cast-off parts. A world of berries and carrot peels ad Frau Elena's fairy tales. Of the sharp smell of tar, and trains passing, and a voice on the radio offering a loom on which to spin his dreams.

But this was just a story they told to comfort themselves.

Parachuting through the air around him, blown out of the firs, are hundreds of pine needles bundled in twos. He catches one, imagines it as a little man with a truncated torso and long slender legs. The NeedleMan ventures across the clearing on his pointy feet.

make the raised dots form letters, the letters words, the words a world.

Or maybe the stone was never real at all. Maybe it was all hoax, all story.

Werner likes to crouch in his dormer and imagine radio waves like mile-long harp strings,bending and vibrating over Zollverein,flying through forests,through cities,through walls.At midnight he and Jutta prowl the ionosphere,searching for that lavish,penetrating voice.When they find it,Werner feels as if he has been launched into a different existence,a secret place where great discoveries are possible,where an orphan from a coal town can solve some vital mystery hidden in the physical world.

The lost Greek tale Cloud Cuckoo Land, by the writer Antonius Diogenes, relating a shepherd's journey to a city in the sky, was probably written around the end of the first century C.E.

As if, inside Werner's head, an infinitesimal orchestra has stirred to life.

But I am letting myself be carried away by reveries which I must now put aside, writes Aronnax. Enough of these phantasies.

Because if it's told well enough, for as long as the story lasts, you get to slip the trap.

Hertz's theories are interesting but what he loves most is building things, working with his hands, connecting his fingers to the engine of his mind.