Quotes About Imagination

my point being, what if my attacks are enterly unrelated attributable in fact to something entirely else, perhaps for instance just warning shocks brought on by my own crumbling biology, tiny flakes of unknown chemical origin already burning holes through the fabric of my mind, dismantling memories, undoing even the strongest powers of imagination and reason? how then do you fly from that path?

How easily she finds the impossible in the ordinary.

Which in the gray of gentler eyes will prove far more than any of us could ever need; 'enough' we will shout, 'enough!' our bellies full, our hearts full, our ages full; fullness and greater fullness and even more fullness; how then we will laugh and forget how imagining has already left us.

for where else could we have really gone?

And so now, in the shadow of unspoken events, I watch Zampanò's courtyard darken. Everything whimsical has left. I try to study the light-going carefully. From my room. In the glass of memory. In the moonstream of my imagination. The weeds, the windows, every bench. But the old man is not there, and the cats are all gone. Something else has taken their place. Something I am unable to see. Waiting. I'm afraid. It is hungry. It is immortal. Worse, it knows nothing of whim.

Mi tuffo, tengo i palmi moooolto larghi, rovesciando il Mondo e sollevando il cielo, unendo insieme stratocumuli & terreno.

Whenever I felt particularly bad I'd instantly cling to a favorite daydream, one I was willing to revisit constantly, a pretty vivid one too . . .

and I want something else. I'm not even sure what to call it anymore except I know it feels roomy and it's drenched in sunlight and it's weightless and I know it's not cheap. Probably not even real.

We all create stories to protect ourselves

Confining us to the comforts of a well-lit home gives our varied imaginations a chance to fill the adjacent darkness with questions and demons.

He had what he called just a small ration of tools: A painted book. A handful of pencils. A mindful of thoughts. Like a simple puzzle, he put them together.

Often I wish this would all be over, Liesel, but then somehow you do something like walk down the basement steps with a snowman in your hands.

You can't eat books, sweetheart.

The words were on their way, and when they arrived, she would hold them in her hands like the clouds, and she would wring them out like the rain.

As always, one of her books was next to her.

I like that every page in every book can have a gem on it. It's probably what I love most about writing—that words can be used in a way that's like a child playing in a sandpit, rearranging things, swapping them around. They're the best moments in a day of writing—when an image appears that you didn't know would be there when you started work in the morning.

Of course you're real-like any thought or any story. It's real when you're in it.

She could smell the pages. She could almost taste the words as they stacked up around her.

She looks at the swings, and I can see she's imagining what they'd look like if the kids weren't there. The guilt of this holds her down momentarily. It appears to be there constantly. Never far away, despite her love for them. I realize that nothing belongs to her anymore and she belongs to everything.

You're far from this. This story is just another few hundred pages of your mind.

If you can't imagine it, think clumsy silence. Think bits and pieces of floating despair. And drowning in a train.

As always, she was carrying the washing. Rudy was carrying two buckets of cold water, or as he put it, two buckets of future ice.

You can do anything when it's not real. When it is real, nothing breaks your fall. Nothing gets between you and the ground.

At first, all is black and white. Black on white. That's where I'm walking, through pages. These pages. Sometimes it gets so that I have one foot in the pages and the words, and the other in what they speak of.