Quotes About Imagination

She could dream of happy endings. For him, if not for her.

Sometimes he fantasised that at the end of his life, he would be shown a home movie of all the roads he had not taken, and where they would have led.

I write because I want to have more than one life.

Funny how you have to picture losing a thing before you think you might value it after all.

To my earlier self I would like to say, "Relax. The story will come in due time. Trust your characters. Let them tell you what happens next.

I was born with the impression that what happened in books was much for reasonable, and interesting, and real, in some ways, than what happened in life.

He honestly believed, for an instant, that what he'd heard was music-a tune piped, a burble of notes, a little scrap of melody floating by on wind and breaking his heart.

It appears that he was accidentally dreaming somebody else's dream.

I think if you knew them well enough, if you'd listened to them closely enough while they were still alive, you might be able to imagine what they would tell you even now. So the smart thing to do is, pay attention while they're living.

I read so that I can live more than one life in more than one place.

Like most youngest children, he had trouble remembering his own past. The older ones did it so well for him, why should he bother? They had built him a second-hand memory that included the years before he existed, even. He had a distinct memory of Melissa's running away from home with a peanut sandwich and a pomegranate, two years before he was born; but he himself, with his locust on a leash, had vanished.

I read so I live more than one life in more than one place.

I was born with the impression that what happened in books was much more reasonable, and interesting, and real, in some ways, than what happened in life.

But still, you know how it is when you're missing a loved one. You try to turn every stranger into the person you were hoping for.

Alice often liked to imagine that a book was being written about her life. A narrator with an authoritative male voice was describing her every act. "Alice sighed" was a frequent observation.

you know how it is when you're missing a loved one. You try to turn every stranger into the person you were hoping for.

didn't paintings lie also? They showed hours instead of minutes.

When she was a child she used to imagine that her mother might painlessly die somehow and her father would marry a lovely, serene woman who would sit at Willa's bedside when she had a bad dream and lay a cool palm on her forehead.

I read so I can live more than one life in more than one place !

Artists! They were all crazy. In a good way, of course.

I always say that the way you write a novel is for the first 83 drafts you pretend that nobody is ever, ever going to read it.

He must have been thinking about this ahead of time. He must have consciously decided he wanted her, and imagined how it would be. The knowledge made her feel mysterious and desirable and grown-up.

He drew the brush along the wood with dreamy strokes. Wasn't it interesting how the grain of the wood told a story, almost—how you could follow the threads and be surprised at how far they traveled, or where they unexpectedly broke off.

People dream, despite whatever supposed realities may be before them.