Quotes About Imagination

Literature and gossip are closely related. People who are curious and imaginative long to know 'what it's like for other people.' This longing can be satisfied in its basest, most banal form through gossip, just as it can attain a more refined and complex gratification in art. Both gossip and literature, each in its own way, are capable of offering a partial antidote to fanaticism, because they both relish the fascinating differences between people.

Non capisci, Nimi sogna solo per poter raccontare. E poi, i suoi sogni, non smettono nemmeno dopo che si è svegliato, la mattina.

lo que ocurre ahora es que todo el mundo en este país exclama El rey está desnudo y quizás por eso el niño deba encontrar un grito nuevo

in all kinds of colors that don't have names. In general, I think there are far more colors and smells than there are words. The

But why write about things that exist even without you? Why describe in words things that are not words?

To write about things that exist, to try to capture a color or smell or sound in words, is a little like playing Schubert when Schubert is sitting in the hall, and perhaps sniggering in the darkness.

Tento realçar a nossa capacidade de de nos imaginarmos uns aos outros. Façamo-lo a todos os níveis, começando pelo mais quotidiano. Imaginemos o outro quando lutamos, imaginemos o outro quando nos queixamos, imaginemos o outro precisamente quando sentimos que temos cem por cento de razão. Mesmo quando se tem cem por cento de razão e o outro está cem por cento equivocado, continua a ser útil imaginar o outro.

Curiosity and imagination are bound together. The age-old human urge to peek behind other people's drawn shutters, the eagerness to compare one's own intimate secrets with the secret intimacy of others, is an urge that may serve as an antidote to the fanatic's lust to murder the difference between himself and others. Or to kill anyone who refuses to change and declines to be exactly like him.

A person's face goes in your eyes and down you arms and into your fingers, and that's how you draw.

I read about a famous mystery writer who worked for one week in a department store. One day she saw a woman come in and buy a doll. The mystery writer found out the woman's name, and took a bus to New Jersey to see where the woman lived. That was all. Years later, she referred to this woman as the love of her life. It is possible to imagine a person so entirely that the image resists attempts to dislodge it.

If the castle is hope, memory is the moat that surrounds it.

There is the world as it exists, and then, just next to it, the world one creates in order to exist. The boundaries limited only by ones imagination.

When we were speaking on the phone, I envisioned not a distinct person with a face and body, but rather a vague, faceless essence, as if their whole personality manifested itself into an aura that wasn't exactly physical as we know it.

turn page upside down =

Without stories, we'd have even more trouble recognizing what's real.

He had no interest in another person, in imagining what it might be like to be on the other side.

Words to me were magic. You could say a word and it could conjure up all kinds of images or feelings or a chilly sensation or whatever. It was amazing to me that words had this power.

Who knows where inspiration comes from. Perhaps it arises from desperation. Perhaps it comes from the flukes of the universe, the kindness of the muses.

That is the saddest part when you lose someone you love - that person keeps changing. And later you wonder, Is this the same person I lost? Maybe you lost more maybe less, then thousand different things that come from your memory or imagination - and you do not know which is which, which was true, which is false.

I have loved works of fiction precisely for their illusions, for the author's sleight-of-hand in showing me the magic, what appeared in the right hand but not in the left...

I imagine a hundred Chinese Icaruses, molding wings out of earwax. You can't stop people from wishing.

All night long I worried, not about myself but about Jimmy. I imagined him looking for me, running through the park, looking in the movie theatres. He was a good man, considerate and kind, but he was not strong. He had never been through any kind of bad hardship before. So I worried.

It's a luxury being a writer because all you ever think about is life.

I read to escape to a more interesting world, not to be locked up in a sweltering prison and find myself vicariously standing among people who are tortured beyond the limits of sanity.