Quotes About Imagination

She took the beast's hand. "Let's go home" she said "to the castle" The beast nodded, and togheter, they placed their hand once more on the pages of the enchanted book, closed their eyes... and pictured home.

I love books. I like that the moment you open one and sink into it you can escape from the world, into a story that's way more interesting that yours will ever be.

I love books. I love that moment when you can open one and sink into it. You can escape from the world, into a story that's way more interesting than yours will ever be.

i love books. i love that moment when you open one and sink into it. you can escape from the world, into a story thats way more interesting than yours will ever be.

I love books! I love that moment when you open one and sink into it you can escape from the world,into a story that's way more interesting than yours ever will be

And the only way to find that honesty is to not overthink it. For your writing to come alive--to be multi-dimensional--you must barter away some control.

And I, who have the world in my pocket, can bring them nothing to comfort their disappointment or reward their optimism, but supplicate the fatted calf which they killed so often before and so in vain. Parents' imaginations build frameworks out of their own hopes and regrets into which children seldom grow, but instead, contrary as trees, lean sideways out of the architecture, blown by a fatal wind their parents never envisaged.

Parents' imaginations build frameworks out of their own hopes and regrets into which children seldom grow, but instead, contrary as trees, lean sideways out of the architecture, blown by a fatal wind their parents never envisaged.

I think what Vincent wanted was for me to find him in his words, even between the lines. Then he wanted me to write him a story he could live in just as I had once told him I might.

And if such a gift could come to him at such a time, then anything—dear girl from Rockford dressed up for her meeting, rushing above the Rock River—he opened his eyes, and yes, there it was, the perfect knowledge: Anything was possible for anyone.

What is it like to be you? I need to say: This is the question that has made me a writer; always that deep desire to know what it feels like to be a different person.

So—you're a writer. You're an artist.

Nothing is what you imagine. Her mind hovered above this simple and alarming thought. The variables were too great, the particularities too distinct, life a flood of translations from the shadow-edged yearnings of the heart to the immutable aspects of the physical world.

It was the tall white windmills that came to her mind. How their skinny long arms all turned, but never together, except for just once in a while two of them would be turning in unison, their arms poised at the same place in the sky.

She had recently, though, had fantasies of what they called "going normal.

I need to say: This is the question that has made me a writer; always that deep desire to know what it feels like to be a different person.

He felt her big presence, and imagined—fleetingly—that an elephant sat next to him, one that wanted to be a member of the human kingdom, and sweet in an innocent way, as though her stubs of forelegs were folded on her lap, her trunk moving just a little as she finished speaking.

From a drop of water a logician could infer the possibility of an Atlantic or a Niagara without having seen or heard of one or the other.

Life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent.

No wonder the film industry started in the desert in California where, like all desert dwellers, they dream their buildings, rather than design them.

The great dream merchant Disney was a success because make-believe was what everyone seemed to need in a spiritually empty land.

Sometimes," he sighed, "I think the things I remember are more real than the things I see.

Let's not be too harsh where poets are concerned. They have to live in no-man's-land, halfway between dreams and reality.

There was a young lady named Bright,Whose speed was far faster than light;She set out one dayIn a relative way,And returned home the previous night.