Quotes About Imagination

Stories are not chapters of novels. They should not be read one after another, as if they were meant to follow along. Read one. Shut the book. Read something else. Come back later. Stories can wait.

I still do not know what impels anyone sound of mind to leave dry land and spend a lifetime describing people who do not exist. If it is child's play, an extension of make believe - something one is frequently assured by people who write about writing - how to account for the overriding wish to do that, just that, only that, and consider it as rational an occupation as riding a bicycle over the Alps?

I am not interested in theories, she had taught herself to say, for fear of being invaded by something other than a dream. But she was not certain what she meant and not sure that it was true.

No one is as real to me as people in the novel. It grows like a living thing. When I realize they do not exist except in my mind I have a feeling of sadness, looking around for them, as if the half-empty cafe were a place I had once come to with friends who had all moved away.

Without imagination, there's no power to visualize what we have never experienced... and without that, there can be no progress, no invention.

Thanks for being the kind of person who likes to pick up a book. That's a genuinely great thing. I met a librarian recently who said she doesn't read because books are her job and when she goes home, she just wants to switch off. I think we can agree that that's creepy as hell.

And, hey. You. Thanks for being the kind of person who likes to pick up a book. That's a genuinely great thing. I met a librarian recently who said she doesn't read because books are her job and when she goes home, she just wants to switch off. I think we can agree that that's as creepy as hell. Thank you for seeking out stories, the kind that take place in your brain.

Not for an instant did he flinch from the mere fact of dying to-day…To die 'untimely,' as men called it, was the timeliest of deaths for one who had carved his youth to greatness. What perfection could he, Dorset, achieve beyond what was already his? Future years could but stale, if not actually mar, that perfection. Yes, it was lucky to perish leaving much to the imagination of posterity. Dear posterity was of a sentimental, not a realistic, habit.

As she sat here in the bay-window of her room, she was not reviewing the splendid pageant of her past. She was a young person whose reveries never were in retrospect. For her the part was no treasury of distinct memories, all hoarded and classified, some brighter than others and more highly valued. All memories were for her but as the motes in one fused radiance that followed her and made more luminous the pathway of her future. She was always looking forward.

most people would rather face the light of a real enemy than the darkness of their imagined fears. How

It's a blessing and a curse, the human mind. We're the only creatures on Earth that can imagine our own death. But"—she held up my spear—"we can also imagine ways to prevent it.

most people would rather face the light of a real enemy than the darkness of their imagined fears.

But I mean, c'mon! Magic potions? Tell me you wouldn't be losing it too!

challenging readers to watch these old movies "with the eyes of a six-year-old child, eyes that flick constantly from the terror on the screen to the dark, rustling trees outside the window.

the only Cuba I could ever imagine. That is, until the dead began to rise.

Art has nothing to do with taste. Art is not there to be tasted

And Loplop, bird superior, has transformed himself into flesh without flesh and will dwell among us...

He who says collage says the irrational.

Sunt orb. N-o ÅŸtiu întotdeauna, doar uneori. Apoi îns? m? întreb din nou dac? poveÅŸtile pe care mi le pot imagina nu sunt totuÅŸi viaÅ£a mea. DeÅŸi nu cred. Nu pot s? cred c? ceea ce eu v?d este chiar mersul lumii.

Jeder Mensch erfindet sich früher oder später eine Geschichte, die er für sein Leben hält.

Jeder Mensch erfindet sich früher oder später eine Geschichte, die er für sein Leben hält, [...] oder eine ganze Reihe von Geschichten [...].

Every day at precisely noon a fellow turns up on a busy street corner with a green flag and a bugle. He waves the flag, blows a few notes on the bugle, utters a mysterious incantation, and goes away. A cop, observing this exercise over a period of weeks, finally gets overwhelmed by curiosity. What the hell are you doing? asks the cop. Keeping giraffes away, says the fellow. The cop says, But there are no giraffes around here. The fellow says, Doing a good job, ain't I?

Christmas is best pondered, not with logic, but with imagination.

One's imagination is kindled thinking about the conversation of the innkeeper and his family at the breakfast table. Did anyone mention the arrival of the young couple the night before? Did anyone ask about their welfare? Did anyone comment on the pregnancy of the girl on the donkey? Perhaps. Perhaps someone raised the subject. But, at best, it was raised, not discussed. There was nothing that novel about them. They were, possibly, one of several families turned away that night.