Quotes About Imagination

All these things Alanna knew from her father's books and maps, but the reality took her breath away as a paragraph written in a book never could.

Locks are for the unimaginative.

It's a Stormwing, Ozorne said. I always wanted one.

When God designed the Marquesas... he must have been high.

Even in Sri Lanka, the worst only happened in my imagination, I'd say, and this is so because we live on a planet where good people outnumber bad.

Louisa beheld the grounds and house with the calm pleasure of one who has seen nothing, been nowhere, expects everything, and has little imagination.

Down the stairs again leapt Art. She whirled across the lower landing, her head full of barking cannon, towering rigging, the creak of timbers, the voice of her mother, Molly. Before her eyes floated the golden oasts of Amer Rica, Persis, and Zanzibari, dolphins springing like silver bullets from the blue mouths of the waves. 'Her father must be fetched!' shouted Miss Eeble. 'She has gone mad!' 'Sane,' remarked Art. 'Gone sane.

Tanaquil gently toed the peeve. I'll unfasten the window. Jump out to the lower roof and run. Stay and bite, said the peeve.

He stretched his crayoned mouth, and nodded, and there stood all his actors in a line, though somehow it was still hard to count them, still difficult to be sure how many of them there were.

A dream came by. The dream had the actor's face and his voice, but he did not speak to her and his eyes did not answer hers.

I do not sing songs. I sing dreams, and they are nothing. And since you'll have me sing nothing, I need not sing at all.

Fine living is not for you, lads, eh? Well, go out and play in the streets for a while, my honeys.

No one is lonely when they read or create. It is only the uncreative who indulge in gossip.

Maybe making something of yourself is as simple as having the gumption to do something bigger than you could have ever imagined, of walking, no marching straight into the center of fear all while playing a horn, blowing your worries into sweet, bold, triumphant music.

there is no truth beyond illusion....between 'reality' on the one hand, and the point where reality comes into being, where two very different surfaces mingle and blur to provide what life does not: and this is the space where all art exists, and magic.

You, Book! You are the only one who won't deceive, won't attack, won't insult, won't abandon! You're quiet - but you laugh, shout, and sing: you're obedient - but you amaze, tease, and entice; you're small, but you contain countless peoples. Nothing but a handful of letters, that's all, but if you feel like it, you can turn heads, confuse, spin, cloud, make tears spring to the eyes, take away the breath, the entire soul will stir in the wind like a canvas, will rise in waves and flap its wings!

That's what poems are for, so you don't understand a thing.

Because once upon a time, we grew up on stories and the voices in which they were told. We need words to hold us and the world to behold us for us to truly know our own souls.

Read to your children all of the time Novels and nursery rhymes Autobiographies, even the newspaper It doesn't mater; it's quality time Because once upon a time We grew up on stories in the voices in which they were told We need words to hold us and the world to behold us For us to truly know our souls

I sell ideas. Actually, if you think about it, everything is really no more than idea. The past is nothing more than a memory, which is one kind of idea. The future is still a hope, another kind of idea. The present is fleeting and becomes a memory before you can put your hands on it. All ideas. I sell ideas.

That was the advantage of a young mind--believing was easier.

And then... And then Thomas Hunter dreamed, and the world would never be the same.

Only a woman could make so much out of so little. Give them a single fact and they'd fashion it into a story before taking a single breath.

Everything was really a story, penned or thought or acted out at some time by someone.