Quotes About Imagination

Every great dream begins with a dreamer. —HARRIET TUBMAN

Otra clave para establecer metas u objetivos es jugar. Deje vagar su mente con libertad. Las limitaciones que tenga usted son las que usted mismo ha creado.

Algunos hombres ven las cosas como son, y dicen: «¿Por qué?» Yo sueño con cosas que nunca fueron, y me pregunto: «¿Por qué no?»

The leaders in our culture are the people who see the possibilities, who can go into a desert and see a garden.

Her happiness, like that of most of us, was ever in the future,—never reached but always coming. 

Who would ever think of learning to live out of an English novel?

I have from the first felt sure that the writer, when he sits down to commence his novel, should do so, not because he has to tell a story, but because he has a story to tell. The novelist's first novel will generally have sprung from the right cause.

On Charles Dickens) It has been the peculiarity and the marvel of this man's power, that he has invested his puppets with a charm that has enabled him to dispense with human nature.

The habit of reading is the only enjoyment in which there is no alloy; it lasts when all other pleasures fade

Who would ever think of learning to live out of an English novel?" said Carry.

Mr. Jones had never seen the lady's face. He longed to know what were the features of the woman who had been so blind — if indeed that story were true.

But to me Barset has been a real county, and its city a real city, and the spires and towers have been before my eyes, and the voices of the people are known to my ears, and the pavement of the city ways are familiar to my footsteps.

She still thought of a possible Corsair who would be willing to give up all but his vices for her love, and for whose sake she would be willing to share even them. It was but a dream, but nevertheless it pervaded her fancy constantly.

A novelist's characters must be with him as he lies down to sleep, and as he wakes from his dreams. He must learn to hate them and to love them.

Nunca ninguém escreveu ou pintou, esculpiu, modelou, construiu, inventou, sem ser para sair realmente do inferno.

Keiner hat je geschrieben oder gemalt, geformt, modelliert, gebaut oder erfunden, es sei denn, um der Hölle zu entkommen.

Philosophy appears to concern itself only with the truth, but perhaps expresses only fantasies, while literature appears to concern itself only with fantasies, but perhaps it expresses the truth.

Like a blazing comet, I've traversed infinite nights, interstellar spaces of the imagination, voluptuousness and fear. I've been a man, a woman, an old person, a little girl, I've been the crowds on the grand boulevards of the capital cities of the West, I've been the serene Buddha of the East, whose calm and wisdom we envy. I've known honor and dishonor, enthusiasm and exhaustion. ...I've been the sun and the moon, and everything because life is not enough.

La filosofia sembra che si occupi solo della verità, ma forse dice solo fantasie, e la letteratura sembra che si occupi solo di fantasie, ma forse dice la verità.

I saw then that he had lost touch with reality. He lived in a fantasy world of maps and flags.

Struck by the limitless horizon and expanse of sky, and perhaps also influenced by the sight of vehicles swaying crazily in and out of potholes like ships in a heavy swell, the more imaginative saw the steppe as an uncharted sea. General Strecker described it in a letter as 'an ocean that might drown the invader'.

Lake Como, she said the little name to herself lingeringly. He had described a marble palace amongst cypress trees, had made her feel that she was there with him listening to the lap of the water, the singing of a nightingale, the love serenade of a boatman on the lake. Piangi, piangi fanciulla, he had sung for them the first line. She hadn't known that he could sing.

Sometimes people did this, closed their eyes for a few seconds and imagined it gave them insights into what it was like to be her. Only, at the end, they could still open their eyes and see.

A flame started on the stained fabric of the seat, then began to inch up the back. It felt like magic. He had just created it out of nothing. Now it danced and moved like a living thing.