Quotes About Imagination

Original thought is like original sin: both happened before you were born to people you could not have possibly met.

I want a horse! I do! Of course. I'd ride it all day, Up, up, and away!

Fran Manushkin

Her dreams took up a sharper precision of outline. She sought deliberately in her past for facts long since forgotten, for lips that from afar she had adored, for bodies vaguely recognized which chance meetings and the random happenings of dream had brought into innocent contact with her own. She composed a symphony of happiness, invented a world of delights, built up from odds and ends a wholly impossible universe of love.

I warmly recommend to you the films of poets.

Je fais des films pour réaliser mes rêves d'adolescent, pour me faire du bien et, si possible, faire du bien aux autres.

it is the man of the night who invents, the man of the morning is nothing but a scribe.

The idea precedes everything, the rest is only attentive patience, weaving, a game of shuttles; for it is the man of the night who invents, the man of the morning is nothing but a scribe

the soul never thinks without a mental picture',13 'the thinking faculty thinks of its forms in mental pictures',14 'no one could ever learn or understand anything, if he had not the faculty of perception; even when he thinks speculatively, he must have some mental picture with which to think.'15 For

He inferred that persons desiring to train this faculty [of memory] must select places and form mental images of the things they wish to remember and store those images in the places, so that the order of the places will preserve the order of the things, and the images of the things will denote the things themselves, and we shall employ the places and images respectively as a wax writing-tablet and the letters written on it.2

True stories seldom have endings. I don't want a happy ending, I want more story.

Everybody knew that books were dangerous. Read the wrong book, it was said, and the words crawled around your brain on black legs and drove you mad, wicked mad.

Nobody's mind ever remains a blank page, however carefully they are locked away from the world.

She lay there with her eyes closed, as if sleep were a shy creature that might venture out if she played dead. But every time it seemed to be drawing closer, some loud thought would crash and blunder through the undergrowth, putting it to flight.

My child, you have a flawed grasp of the nature of myth-making. I am a poet and storyteller, a creator of ballads and sagas. Pray do not confuse the exercise of the imagination with mere mendacity. I am a master of the mysteries of words, their meanings and music and mellifluous magic.

You could keep people alive forever through stories.

She dreamed of a world where books did not rot or give way to green blot, where words and ideas were not things you were despised for treasuring.

In Caverna lies were an art and everybody was an artist, even young children.

No." Mosca bit her lip and shook her head firmly. Books no longer seemed quite enough. I don't want a happy ending, I want more story.

Why must we look inward, and only inward, as if the world ends where the sky begins?

you only had to provide part of a lie. You could rely on other people's imaginations to fill the gaps.

She imagined it, a great Bear lost in darkness, friendless and trapped as it had been for so long. It could not understand where it was, or why its body was so strange and weak. All it knew was that it was under attack, just as it had always been...

I don't want a happy ending. I want more story.

The Childersins were armed with swords and daggers. The Cartographers were armed with nothing but surprise, but really quite a lot of surprise.