Quotes About Imagination

Little events, ordinary things, smashed and reconstituted. Suddenly, they become the bleached bones of a story.

Another world is not only possible, she is on her way. Maybe many of us won't be here to greet her, but on a quiet day, if I listen very carefully, I can hear her breathing.

To call someone 'anti-American', indeed, to be anti-American, (or for that matter anti-Indian, or anti-Timbuktuan) is not just racist, it's a failure of the imagination. An inability to see the world in terms other than those that the establishment has set out for you: If you're not a Bushie you're a Taliban. If you don't love us, you hate us. If you're not Good you're Evil. If you're not with us, you're with the terrorists.

He walked on water. Perhaps. But could he have *swum* on land? In matching knickers and dark glasses? With his Fountain in a Love-in-Tokyo? In pointy shoes and a puff? Would he have had the imagination?

Rahel's toy wristwatch had the time painted on it. Ten to two. One of her ambitions was to own a watch on which she could change the time whenever she wanted to (which according to her was what Time was meant for in the first place).

Fiction and non-fiction are only different techniques of story telling. For reasons I do not fully understand, fiction dances out of me. Non-fiction is wrenched out by the aching, broken world I wake up to every morning.

To call someone 'anti-American', indeed, to be anti-American, is not just racist, it's a failure of the imagination.

Lose your dreams and you Will lose your mind.

But it's hard to say where experience ends and imagination begins. The story is by no means a true story. But the feelings in it are.

Historically, pandemics have forced humans to break with the past and imagine their world anew. This one is no different. It is a portal, a gateway between one world and the next. We can choose to walk through it, dragging the carcasses of our prejudice and hatred, our avarice, our data banks and dead ideas, our dead rivers and smoky skies behind us. Or we can walk through lightly, with little luggage, ready to imagine another world. And ready to fight for it.

Poetry, music and literature, he believed, ought not to be interrupted by the banality of war.

If you're happy in a dream, Ammu, does that count?' Estha asked. 'Does what count?' 'The happiness—does it count?' She knew exactly what he meant, her son with his spoiled puff. Because the truth is, that only what /counts/ counts. The simple, unswerving truth of children. If you eat fish in a dream, does it count? Does it mean you've eaten fish?

The first step towards reimagining a world gone terribly wrong would be to stop the annihilation of those a different imagination - an imagination that is outside of Capitalism as well as Communism. An imagination that has an altogether different understanding of what constitutes happiness and fulfillment.

He looked cheerful, as though he was with an imaginary friend whose company he enjoyed.

I would like to write one of those sophisticated stories in which even though nothing much happens there's lots to write about.

She remembers, for instance (though she hadn't been there), what the Orangedrink Lemondrink Man did to Estha in Abhilash Talkies. She remembers the taste of the tomato sandwiches—Estha's sandwiches, that Estha ate—on the Madras Mail to Madras.

A new world is not only possible

Something convulsed. Something changed. It was about language again. Not a writer's private language, but a country's public language, its public imagination of itself. Suddenly, things that would have been unthinkable to say in public became acceptable. Officially acceptable. Virile national pride, which had more to do with hate than love, flowed like noxious lava on the streets.

Stavano con lui per ore, accasciati per terra - punti interrogativi accoccolati in una pozza di trucioli di legno - e si chiedevano come mai Velutha sembrava sempre sapere quali forme levigate lo aspettassero all'interno di un pezzo di legno.

Hubo una época en que lo inconcebible se hizo concebible y ocurrió lo imposible.

Something convulsed. Something changed. It was about language again. Not a writer's private language, but a country's public language, its public imagination of itself. Suddenly, things that would have been unthinkable to say in public became acceptable. Officially acceptable. Virile national pride, which had more to do with hate than love, flowed like noxious lava on the streets.

Si, comme il arrivait quelquefois, elle avait les traits d'une femme que j'avais connue dans la vie, j'allais me donner tout entier à ce but : la retrouver, comme ceux qui partent en voyage pour voir de leurs yeux une cité désirée et s'imaginent qu'on peut goûter dans une réalité le charme du songe. Peu à peu son souvenir s'évanouissait, j'avais oublié la fille de mon rêve.

Dreams and reality are opposites. Action synthesizes them.

human beings commonly imagine patterns (whether good or bad) where really there are none.