Quotes About Imagination

Art is a sense of magic.

The pleasure of reading a story and wondering what will come next for the hero is a pleasure that has lasted for centuries and, I think, will always be with us.

Marvel is a cornucopia of fantasy, a wild idea, a swashbuckling attitude, an escape from the humdrum and the prosaic. It's a serendipitous feast for the mind, the eye, the imagination, a literate celebration of unbridled creativity, coupled with a touch of rebellion and an insolent desire to spit in the eye of the dragon.

And the rain was brain colored and the thunder sounded like something remembering something.

J'ai rencontré quelqu'un qui avait si peu lu qu'il devait inventer lui-même ses citations de classiques.

We have no need of other worlds. We need mirrors. We don't know what to do with other worlds. A single world, our own, suffices us; but we can't accept it for what it is.

The only writers who have any peace are the ones who don't write. And there are some like that. They wallow in a sea of possibilities. To express a thought, you first have to limit it, and that means kill it. Every word I speak robs me of a thousand others, and every line I write means giving up another.

A writer should not run around with a mirror for his countrymen; he should tell his society and his times things no one ever thought before.

But what am I going to see? I don't know. In a certain sense, it depends on you.

Every stink that fights the ventilator thinks it is Don Quixote.

If it can be written, or thought, it can be filmed.

The book can also be a hat.

A filmmaker has almost the same freedom as a novelist has when he buys himself some paper.

Clouds, snow, mist, the dragon's breath on water, smoke from fire—a metaphor's pure being. —(1939–2019)

And I'm listening and thinking of the distances imagination travels sitting still, wandering without direction.

Even in my dreams I never imagined that I should find so much love on Earth.' (Prince Albert)

I am pretty sure the myth of me Is better than the reality.

Wish my life were inside a book So I could turn to the ending, See if it is a love story Or a gothic disaster.

It is strange to hear my words Read back to me. I don't think I wrote them To have them ever leave the page. I think I only write What happens across my brain When my feet are too weary To dance anymore.

Am I lonelier now Than when my sad imagination Had him disappear? Heart torn, Loosing tiny droplets Of sorrow No tape can measure No needle can mend.

I wish I could concentrate on dancing Instead of spending so much time pretending I am still in junior high But with Rem, I want to be sixteen Or, like Alice in Wonderland, Sometimes smaller, Sometimes bigger still.

On the whole, art should not be explained; it must be experienced.

He thought of the next Saturday. [...] He thought of the picnic by the dipping pool on the river, where oaks and willows dappled the sun on water the color of tea; and girls in light summer dresses would sit in pools of pale cotton. And he knew he would not go.

O amor, admito-o com um suspiro, é muito mais forte que a literatura, porém o amor na literatura é bem mais belo do que na própria vida. Ao menos de vez em quando permite iludirmo-nos.