Quotes About Imagination

ducking around twisted trees whose fingers are branches spread like cracked ceilings under gray sky.

He was the crazy one who had painted himself black and defeated the world. She was the book thief without the words. Trust me, though, the words were on their way, and when they arrived, Liesel would hold them in her hands like the clouds, and she would wring them out like the rain.

There was once a strange small man but there was a word shaker too.

CHRISTMAS GREETINGS FROM MAX VANDENBURG "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.

It's funny how when you watch people from a long distance, it all seems voiceless. It's like watching a silent movie. You guess what people say. You watch their mouths move and imagine the sounds of their feet hitting the ground. You wonder what they're talking about and, even more so, what they might be thinking.

At the end of the day, it's still up to you, and that's the beauty of books. In so many ways, they never really end.

Tenía lo que llamaba un pequeño surtido de herramientas: Un libro pintado. Un puñado de lápices. Una cabeza llena de ideas. Como si fueran piezas de un puzzle, empezó a encajarlas.

Supongo que lo que espero es la vida que vendrá más allá de estas páginas.

I saw him hip-deep in some icy water, chasing a book, and I saw a boy lying in bed, imagining how a kiss would taste from his glorious next-door neighbor. He does something to me, that boy. Every time. It's his only detriment. He steps on my heart. He makes me cry.

Ensin värit. Sitten ihmiset. Sillä tavoin minä yleenä asiat näen. Tai ainakin yritän.

Sitting in the water, she imagined the smell of it, mapped out on her papa's clothes. More than anything, it was the smell of friendship, and she could find it on herself, too. Liesel loved that smell. She would sniff her arm and smile as the water cooled around her.

In the shell-shocked kitchen, somewhere near the stove, there's an image of a lonely, overworked typewriter. It sits in a distant, near-empty room. Its keys are faded and a blank sheet waits patiently upright in the assumed position. It wavers slightly in the breeze from the window. Coffee break is nearly over. A pile of paper, the height of a human stands casually by the door. It could easily be smoking.

How do you give someone a piece of sky? Memorize it. Then write it down for him.

Chapter One: It was quite fitting that the entire town was sleeping when the dream carrier was born...

For now, Rudy and Liesel made their way onto Himmel Street in the rain. He was the crazy one who had painted himself black and defeated the world. She was the book thief without the words. Trust me, though, the words were on their way, and when they arrived, Liesel would hold them in her hands like the clouds, and she would wring them out like the rain.

If you feel like it, come with me. I will tell you a story.

I thought you might be too old for such a tale, but maybe no one is.

Ella era una ladrona de libros. Él asaltaba el cielo.

Certo che sei reale», leggo, «come lo è qualunque pensiero, qualunque storia. Diventa tutto reale quando tu ci sei dentro.»

I saw him hip-deep in some icy water, chasing a book, and I saw a boy lying in bed, imagining how a kiss would taste from his glorious next-door neighbor.

Elle, la voleuse de livres dépourvue de mots. Mais croyez-moi, les mots allaient venir et, lorsqu'ils arriveraient, Liesel les prendrait dans sa main, comme les nuages, et elle en exprimerait la substance, comme la pluie.

They accumulated, hour by hour, like sweet and sour dreams, waiting to happen.

First the colours. Then the humans. That's usually how I see things Or at least, how I try

I know what happens and so do you. It's the machinations that wheel us there that aggravate, perplex, interest, and astound me. There are many things to think of. There is much story.