Quotes About Imagination

I have adopted him for a friend. You can do that with people you never speak to at all. You can just watch them, and think about them and be sorry for them, until they seem almost like relations.

Everything's a story. You are a story - I am a story. Miss Minchin is a story.

If the sun is going to shine, little pink clouds float about, and I feel as if I could touch them. And if it rains, the drops patter and patter as if they were saying something nice. Then if there are stars, you can lie and try to count how many go into the patch.

Little Princess Little Lord

You learn things by saying them over and over and thinking about them until they stay in your mind forever, and I think it will be the same with Magic. If you keep calling it to come to you and help you, it will get to be a part of you and it will stay and do things.

Everything's a story. You are a story -I am a story. - Sara Crewe

They were as real as Sara, and it was careless of them not to come out of the story shadowland and say, "Here I am — tell about me." But they did not — which was their fault and not mine. People who live in the story one is writing ought to come forward at the beginning and tap the writing person on the shoulder and say, "Hallo, what about me?" If they don't, no one can be blamed but themselves and their slouching, idle ways.

She was such a little girl that one did not expect to see such a look on her small face. It would have been an old look for a child of twelve, and Sara Crewe was only seven. The fact was, however, that she was always dreaming and thinking odd things and could not herself remember any time when she had not been thinking things about grown-up people and the world they belonged to. She felt as if she had lived a long, long time.

But the essence of a place, the part of it that picks you up and puts you down somewhere else, cannot be given to the reader through factual description. And maybe not at all. You have to find your own secret images. The slow fall of a coin into the gorge with the sun catching the copper only for a moment, and the fall into nothing says more about a sense of place than three pages of restaurant and hotel descriptions...

Writing a poem doubles, triples the experience or connection that initiated it.

I'm reading more than ever. I've started on the left wall of the Carnegie Library and plan to read my way around the room.

the houses that are important to us are the ones that allow us to dream in peace.

Much about home is imagining home

Never lose your childish innocence. It's the most important thing.

Mainly, I remember recognizing his idea that the house protects the dreamer; the houses that are important to us are the ones that allow us to dream in peace.

The South I knew didn't transcend. I wanted out of there. No future I imagined took place below the southern fall line. "She took the first thing smoking on the runway out of here," my family is fond of remembering. But they forget; there was no runway.

If you were a mermaid, you said, If you were a mermaid, I was the sea.

Pulling heads off Barbies, sticking them on the TV antenna and ruining the reception. But thats how witch babies are.

I wish I wasn't a girl who needed so much but a little free creature that slept in deserts and ran on clouds and lived on lilies.

I dreamed you were standing in this dark place and you touched these dead flowers and they lit up like they were electric or something. Electric lilies. Lighting up the Valley.

You are my Marilyn. You are my lake full of fishes. You are my sky set, my 'Hollywood in Miniature,' my pink Cadillac, my highway, my martini, the stage for my heart to rock and roll on, the screen where my movies light up.

I dreamed of being a part of the stories—even terrifying one, even horror stories—because at least the girls in stories were alive before they died.

I'd sit around dreaming that the boys I saw at shows or at work - the boys with silver earrings and big boots - would tell me I was beautiful, take me home and feed me Thai food or omelets and undress me and make love to me all night with the palm trees whispering windsongs about a tortured gleaming city and the moonlight like flame melting our candle bodies.

Weetzie could see him--it was a man, a little man in a turban, with a jewel in his nose, harem pants, and curly-toed slippers. Lanky Lizards! Weetzie exclaimed. Greetings, said the man in an odd voice, a rich, dark purr. Oh, shit! Weetzie said. I beg your pardon? Is that your wish?