Quotes About Imagination

Here they come, a tilting! Five hundred mailed and belted knights on bicycles!

Pretty soon I heard a twig snap down in the dark amongst the trees—something was a stirring. I set still and listened. Directly I could just barely hear a "me-yow! me-yow!" down there. That was good! Says I, "me-yow! me-yow!" as soft as I could, and then I put out the light and scrambled out of the window on to the shed. Then I slipped down to the ground and crawled in among the trees, and, sure enough, there was Tom Sawyer waiting for me.

But who shall tell how many ages it seemed to this prisoner?

We don not think, in the holy places; we think in bed, afterwards, when the glare, and the the noise, and the confusion are gone, and in fancy we revisit alone, the solemn monuments of the past, and summon the phantom pageants of an age that has passed away.

Framed in black moldings on the wall, other works of arts, conceived and committed on the premises, by the young ladies; being grim black-and-white crayons; landscapes, mostly: lake, solitary sail-boat, petrified clouds, pre-geological trees on shore, anthracite precipice;

Never let the truth get in the way of a good story

When all else fails, write what your heart tells you. You can't depend on your eyes, when your imagination are out of focus.

T[he rules of writing] require that the personages in a tale shall be alive, except in the case of corpses, and that always the reader shall be able to tell the corpses from the others.

In still earlier years than those I have been recalling, Holliday's Hill, in our town, was to me the noblest work of God. It appeared to pierce the skies. It was nearly three hundred feet high. In those days I pondered the subject much, but I never could understand why it did not swathe its summit with never-failing clouds, and crown its majestic brow with everlasting snows. I had heard that such was the custom of great mountains in other parts of the world.

So I think it is a reptile, though it may be architecture.

Books are the liberated spirits of men.

The difference between truth and fiction is that fiction has to make sense.

How fairylike does everything appear to her enchanted vision!

and it lay just far enough away to seem a Delectable Land, dreamy, reposeful, and inviting. Tom appeared on the sidewalk with a bucket of whitewash and a long-handled brush. He surveyed the fence, and all gladness left him and a deep melancholy settled down upon his spirit. Thirty yards of board fence nine

You will banish me from your visions and I shall dissolve into the nothingness out of which you made me...

Truth is stranger than fiction, but it is because Fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities; Truth isn't." ? Mark Twain, Following the Equator: A Journey Around the World

was fully able to realize that I was actually living in the sixth century, and in Arthur's court, not a lunatic asylum. After that, I was just as much at home in that century as I could have been in any other; and as for preference, I wouldn't have traded it for the twentieth.

Più divento vecchio, più vividamente ricordo cose che non sono avvenute.

That which I have seen, in that one little moment, will never go out from my memory, but will abide there; and I shall see it all the days, and dream of it all the nights, till I die. Would God I had been blind!

It's no wonder truth is stranger than fiction. Fiction has to make sense.

Shakespeare hiçbir ÅŸey yaratmad?. O, doÄŸru bir ÅŸekilde gözlemledi ve fevkalade resmetti.

The reader must not imagine that he is to find in it wisdom, brilliancy, fertility of invention, ingenuity of construction, excellence of form, purity of style, perfection of imagery, truth to nature, clearness of statement, humanly possible situations, humanly possible people, fluent narrative, connected sequence of events

You can find in a text whatever you bring, if you will stand between it and the mirror of your imagination. (the other Mark).

At the end of half an hour Tom had a vague general idea of his lesson, but no more, for his mind was traversing the whole field of human thought, and his hands were busy with distracting recreations.