Quotes About Imagination

The words are on my tongue—the rounded lumps of them, shining like the marbles beneath the tree.

I tell you, there are times when words are so glad to be set free they laugh out loud and prance across their tablets and inside their scrolls. So it was with the words I wrote. They reveled till dawn.

Far away, I heard the mournful call of an owl. The sound caused a pressure in my throat and I realized it was the need to fashion a story. To call into the blackness like the owl.

There was a sound like a rush of wings in the blackish clouds, and I knew his spirit had left him. I imagined it like a great flock of birds, soaring, scattering, coming to rest everywhere.

Your vision means what you want it to mean. It will mean what you make it to mean

When I visited either of the two Koreas I always imagined that I was traveling back to my roots and would discover new truths about my past. Now it occurred to me that the past I was seeking had for many years been buried under and overtaken by American and Chinese influences. The Korea of my imagination existed only in paintings, history books, the memories of older generations, and in the remnants that I glimpsed, every now and then, like shards of glass poking out from the buried past.

There are only five primary colours,13 but when blended, their shades and hues are limitless.

Notalar beÅŸi geçmez, ama beÅŸ notan?n bileÅŸimleri duyulmad?k melodiler yarat?r. Renkler beÅŸi geçmez, ama beÅŸ rengin bileÅŸimleri görülmedik renkler yarat?r. Tatlar beÅŸi geçmez, ama beÅŸ tad?n bileÅŸimleri tad?lmad?k tatlar yarat?r.

Lisa's baby was due about now. I've decided she had it and it was a girl. I've named her Rachel.

Feed your soul with silence. That's where dreams are born.

having tried and failed to invent a better future for himself, in the end he invented a better past"178

Why are instants of reunion so empty? Perhaps because they are so anticipated, too muffled already at the moment of their coming with every previous imagining to make any mark of their own.They refer backwards, to all the length of time that has refined itself as the prologue to cataclysm, and to all the flawed imaginings themselves, in each of which this moment is strangely dilated, expansive, arrested

The child I was is the only child I really know.' That's it. I can still feel what it was like to be that child of the 1940s from inside; I am still the same mixture of insecurity and determination, shyness and arrogance, curiosity and fear. I have the same talent she had; the same imagination. I write for her, for that child, and so it is true when I say I write for myself.

If you are concerned for the future of our civilization, there is no more cheering sight than a boy or girl who is lost in a book. It's an image I cling to, in moments of depression: the absorbed child, reading.

She understood about the comfort you can get from a small separate world, whether it's a theatre or a basketball team or the inside of a book.

Great-Uncle Merry stopped reading; but the children sat as still and speechless as if his voice still rang on. The story seemed to fit so perfectly into the green land rolling below them that it was as if they sat in the middle of the past.

Writing is one of the loneliest professions in the world because it has to be practiced in this very separate private world, in _here_. Not in the mind; in the imagination. And I think it is possible that the writing of fantasy is the loneliest job of the lot, since you have to go further inside. You have to make so close a connection with the unconscious that the unbiddable door will open and the images fly out, like birds.

Words stretch the muscles of the imagination. Continual placid acceptance of ready-made visual images turns the imagination into a couch-potato.

I dream endlessly, my minstrel,' he said. 'I live in my dreams - they are the only thing this emptiness has not touched. Oh sometimes they are black and dreadful, nightmares from the pit. ... But most of them are wonderful, full of happiness and lost joy, and delight in making and being. Without my dreams, I should have gone mad long ago.' 'Ah,' Gwion said wryly, 'that is true of many men in this world.

No child is wholly wrapped in the present who has grown up seeing a Norman castle from his or her bedroom window.

While reading, I am moved by cadences and vocabularies, values and contexts tangential to or beyond me, but somehow pertinent to how I might begin to apprehend myself and the world differently or how foreign worlds I never encountered or even imagined might catch my attention and sweep me up in their sustained asymmetries.

The "peace which comes from selflessness," Karen Armstrong explains, "is a condition that those of us who are still enmeshed in the cravings of egotism . . . cannot imagine.

I would act, pretend, and the pretense would become real.

Sometimes a book has its day and, although of course it does not change, the reader does, as a result of having read better things, or new tastes having come to the fore, or fashions in literature having moved on. Other novels seem to have improved, usually because we have matured as readers, our imaginations have expanded and we understand new literary approaches, sometimes because of life events which have opened us up to a new emotional awareness and understanding.