Quotes About Imagination

Supo entonces que sobre aquella roca empezaría a construir un santuario, un cementerio de ideas e invenciones, de palabras y prodigios que crecería sobre las cenizas [...] y que algún día albergaría la mayor de las bibliotecas, aquella en la que toda obra perseguida o despreciada por la ignorancia y la malicia de los hombres iría a parar a la espera de volver a encontrar al lector que todo libro lleva dentro.

I want you to make me believe.

Julián lived within himself, for his books and inside them—a comfortable prison of his own design

Nos meus sonhos de colegial seríamos sempre dois fugitivos a cavalo na lombada de um livro,dispostos a escaparem-se através de mundos de ficção e sonhos em segunda mão.

it occurred to me that perhaps the papier-mâché world that I accepted as real was only a stage setting

playing the role of princess in her own fairy tale.

Julián me había dicho alguna vez que un relato era una carta que el autor se escribe a sí mismo para contarse cosas que de otro modo no podría averiguar.

Te romperías el corazón a ti misma —pensó—. Si lo tuvieras.»

Going over all this in my mind, it occurred to me that perhaps the papier-mâché world that I accepted as real was only a stage setting. Much like the arrival of Spanish trains, in those stolen years you never knew when the end of childhood was due.

Marina me dijo una vez que solo recordamos lo que nunca sucedió. Pasaría una eternidad antes de que comprendiese aquellas palabras.

He let the hours go by lost in the magic of words, shedding his skin and his name, feeling like another person.

Is it true you haven't read any of these books?" "Books are boring." "Books are mirrors: you only see in them what you already have inside you," answered Julián.

Cada libro, cada volumen que ves aquí, tiene un alma. El alma de la persona que lo escribió y de aquellos que lo leyeron, vivieron y soñaron con él.

Page after page I let the spell of the story and its world take me over, until the breath of dawn touched my window and my tired eyes slid over the last page. I lay in the bluish half-light with the book on my chest and listened to the murmur of the sleeping city. My eyes began to close, but I resisted. I did not want to lose the story's spell or bid farewell to its characters yet.

could try to tell you the story, but it would be like describing a cathedral by saying it's a pile of stones ending in a spire.

Even then my only friends were made of paper and ink. At school I had learned to read and write long before the other children. Where my school friends saw notches of ink on incomprehensible pages, I saw light, streets, and people. Words and the mystery of their hidden science fascinated me, and I saw in them a key with which I could unlock a boundless world, a safe haven from that home, those streets, and those troubled days in which even I could sense that only a limited fortune awaited me.

En mi mundo, las grandes esperanzas solo vivían entre las páginas de un libro.

It is impossible to survive in a prolonged state of reality. – Carlos Ruiz Zafón, The Angel's Game (The Cemetery of Forgotten Books #2)

And start thinking about another of these stories for me. I'll give you a week for the next one. But don't fall asleep. And let's see if we can have a lower body count this time—today's readers like a slushy ending in which the greatness of the human spirit triumphs over adversity, that sort of rubbish.

Until then, reading was just a duty, a sort of fine one had to pay teachers and tutors without quite knowing why. I had never known the pleasure of reading, of exploring the recesses of the soul, of letting myself be carried away by imagination, beauty, and the mystery of fiction and language. For me all those things were born with that novel.

Al leer ponemos la mente y el alma, y ésos son bienes cada día más escasos. Cada libro, cada tomo que ves, tiene alma. El alma de quien lo escribió, y el alma de quienes lo leyeron y vivieron y soñaron con él.

Criei-me entre livros,fazendo amigos invisíveis em páginas que se desfaziam em pó e cujo cheiro ainda conservo nas mãos.

Where my school friends saw notches on incomprehensible pages, I saw light, streets, and people. Words and the mystery of their hidden science fascinated me, and I saw in them a key with which I could unlock a boundless world, a safe haven from that home, those streets and those troubled days in which I could sense that only a limited fortune awaited me.

Gostava de saborear o desenrolar do enredo e esmiuçar a arquitetura de cada frase,acreditando que,se decifrasse a música daquela prosa,descobriria algo acerca daquele homem que nunca conhecera...