Quotes About Imagination

Every plan had its flow. But sometimes, living in the future was damned cool. Even if she couldn't get a rocket car.

The thing that willed up inside me wasn't words, exactly. It was…notes, music. A pattern of sounds, or perhaps it would be more accurate to liken it to the recalled memory of sounds, arranged into a pleasing and harmonious whole. As Singer had described it-a song.

Michelangelo's thumb moved across his wrist, giving Vincent a sympathetic shiver at the imagined texture of the skin.

Smart, funny Maman. If one must clean one's room every time there are monsters under the bed, pretty soon-voilá!-no monsters!

I dreamed, and they were the terrible dreams that I had been turning out for twenty ans.

Lies are stories.

Galaxies dances across her drawn skin. Mine moved in reflection.

All stories are true stories, or so Will tells me.

Was that what it sounded like when a Rashaquin guffawed? It reminded me of a whole orchestra's string section tuning.

You're on a ride-along in a jumbo flying squid. Dosideieus gigas. I thought it would be nicer than waking up in a hospital bed, given how much time you've spent in those.

Welcome, poets. Welcome, bards.

It was a dream of London, Mehiel told Kit. A dream of England: not quite Faerie, but a place that was neither quite Faerie nor real.

How did he know of this place? What is it, a shadow world, world of the half-told stories?

I had a giant bug to help me. (In all honesty I was probably the sidekick in this equation. But it makes me feel better to pretend otherwise.)

Orphans. Dream of being secret princesses." Perceval's thumbs made firm circles in Rien's muscles. "And so?" she said. "You are.

He thought of Muire quoting poetry in the darkness, his own flip dismissal of the religion behind it, her pursuit of the Grey Wolf. He thought of the sword in her hand, and shook his head and snorted through his nose. Ridiculous. Ridiculous to imagine. The more ridiculous because he suspected he was right.

books are like confort food without the calories

I had a theory at that time that one should write down all one's dreams. That that was the way to write poetry. So I kept a notebook of my dreams and thought if you ate a lot of awful cheese at bedtime you'd have interesting dreams. I went to Vassar with a pot about this big--it did have a cover!--of Roquefort cheese that I kept in the bottom of my bookcase . . . I think everyone's given to eccentricities at that age. I've heard that at Oxford Auden slept with a revolver under his pillow.

I'd havenightmares of other islandsstretching away from mine, infinitiesof islands, islands spawning islandslike frogs' eggs turning into polliwogsof islands, knowing that I had to liveon each and every one, eventually,for ages, registering their flora,their fauna, their geography.

Until everythingwas rainbow, rainbow, rainbow!And I let the fish go.

Bishop on "At the Fishhouses" At the last minute, after I'd had a chance to do a little research in Cape Breton, I found I'd said codfish scales once when it should have been herring scales. I hope they corrected it all right. 2 Quite a few lines of "At the Fishhouses" came to me in a dream, and the scene— which was real enough, I'd recently been there—but the old man and the conversation, etc., were all in a later dream

What childishness is it that while there's a breath of life in our bodies, we are determined to rush to see the sun the other way around?

If after I read a poem the world looks like that poem for 24 hours or so I'm sure it's a good one—and the same goes for paintings.

Oh, must we dream our dreams and have them, too?