Quotes About Imagination

usually something unrelated to the task at hand, ricocheting your thoughts into an unexpected direction—a direction that inevitably leads to a solution linear thinking could never have approached.

most were conspiracy nuts, the kind who think Elvis and Jimi Hendrix are jamming on some island off Fiji.

In short, Millie explained in long, they would decorate the middle school gymnasium to look like various comic-book places.

Horne finally came out to the reception area and moved so that he stood directly over her. He was younger than she'd imagined, though he had that kind of shiny face Loren usually associated with Botox or Jermaine Jackson. His hair was a little too long, slicked back and curling around the neck. His suit was impeccable, though the lapels looked a little wide. Maybe that was back in. He

We pushed past branches and through humidity thick enough to bind. The gummy smell of pine clawed the air. We trudged through high grass. Mosquitoes and the like buzzed upward in our wake. Trees cast long shadows that you could interpret any way you wanted, like trying to figure out what a cloud looked like or one of Rorschach's inkblots. We

few things, I assure you, will devastate like the might-have-beens).

I sat up. Terese Collins. Imagery flooded in—her Class-B-felony bikini, that private island, the sun-kissed beach, her gaze that could melt teeth, her Class-B-felony bikini. It's worth mentioning the bikini twice.

I'm explaining something to you. I didn't understand for a long time. But I do now. The sad songs are a safe hurt. It's a diversion. It's controlled. And maybe it helps you imagine that real pain will be like that. But it's not. Lucy knows that, of course. You can't prepare for real pain. You just have to let it rip you apart.

I can't picture in my mind three hundred and sixty thousand dollars... When I think of it, all I can see in my mind is a big nickel.

Heaven is what you mix all the days of your life, but you call it dreams. You have one chance to buy your Heaven with all the intents and ethics of your life. That is why everyone considers Heaven such a lovely place. Because it is dreams, special dreams, in which you exist. What you have to do is live up to them.

People on the outside think there's something magical about writing, that you go up in the attic at midnight and cast the bones and come down in the morning with a story, but it isn't like that. You sit in back of the typewriter and you work, and that's all there is to it.

The problem isn't what to say about the incredible Ursula Le Guin, it's where to start.

He had discovered the scents and aromas of a spring that was eternally one day away.

The solitary creator, dreaming his or her dream, unaided, seems to me to be the only artist we can trust.

Even when they tell you "it can't be done, it's never been done, nobody's ever done it that way," all they're revealing about themselves is that they are limited, minimally-talented, inept, lazy to the point where they'll let the job walk out the door then have to stretch their imagination to figure out a way the job can be done, and they are not people you should be dealing with, because they can't solve their own problems, much less yours.

People on the outside think there's something magical about writing…

When I leave here, will this shop vanish the way they do in the stories?" "I'm afraid so, yes." "Why do they always do that?" The old man sighed. "You know, you're the first one who ever asked me that." But

People on the outside think there's something magical about writing, that you go up in the attic at midnight and cast the bones and come down in the morning with a story, but it isn't like that. You sit in back of the typewriter and you work, and that's all there is to it.

Ich bin nicht Gott. Wunderbare Idee, das gebe ich zu, aber ich bin trotzdem nicht Gott. Möchtest du Gott begegnen? Wir könnten bestimmt einen der Künstler finden, der ihn für dich aus Ton abbilden oder auf der Leinwand darstellen würde.

The creator of Sir John Falstaff, of Hamlet, and of Rosalind also makes me wish I could be more myself. But that, as I argue throughout this book, is why we should read, and why we should read only the best of what has been written.

Who anyway can define the borderline between gnosis and poetic knowledge? The two modes are not identical, and yet they interpenetrate one another. Are we to call the gnosis of Novalis, Blake, and Shelley a knowledge that is not poetic? In domesticating the Sufis in our imagination, Corbin renders Ibn 1 Arabi and Suhrawardi as a Blakl· and a Shelley whose precursor is not Milton but the Koran.

The work of great poetry is to aid us to become free artists ourselves...The art of reading poetry is an authentic training in the augmentation of consciousness, perhaps the most authentic of healthy modes.

Shakespeare and his few peers invented all of us.

How to read 'Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone'? Why, very quickly, to begin with, and perhaps also to make an end. Why read it? Presumably, if you cannot be persuaded to read anything better, Rowling will have to do.