Quotes About Imagination

Una basílica hecha de libros oculta en un palacio que no había existido nunca, un lugar al que sólo podría volver en sueños.

Y conserva tus sueños -dijo Miquel-. Nunca sabes cuándo te van a hacer falta.

Do you want a piece of advice?' he asked. 'Please.' 'It's practical advice I give all budding writers when they ask me what they should do. If you want to be a writer, write. If you have a story to tell, tell it. Or try.' 'If to become a writer all one needed was a story to tell, everyone would become a novelist.' 'Imagine how awful, a world full of novelists,' joked Rosiers. 'The end of all times.' 'Probably the last thing the world needs is one more.' 'Let the world decide that.

Andaba distraído, con la cabeza en las nubes, media sonrisa en los labios y ese aire sereno de quienes tienen el lujo de no saber cómo funciona el mundo. Nunca había visto una fotografía suya, pero supo quién era antes de verle aproximarse a la puerta de la librería.

Jedes einzelne Buch hat eine Seele. Die Seele dessen, der es geschrieben hat und die Seele derer, die es gelesen und erlebt und von ihm geträumt haben.

Victor Hugo's pen

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.

Cada livro, cada volume que vês, tem uma alma. A alma de quem o escreveu, e as almas daqueles que o leram e viveram e sonharam com ele. Cada vez que um livro muda de mãos, cada vez que alguém passa o olhar pelas suas páginas, o seu espírito cresce e torna-se mais forte.

Los libros son espejos: sólo se ve en ellos lo que uno ya lleva dentro." ? Carlos Ruiz Zafón, The Shadow of the Wind

His soul is in his stories.

That book taught me that by reading, I could live more intensely. It could give me back the sight I had lost. For that reason alone, a book that didn't matter to anyone changed my life.

All I know is that once Julián told the kids in the building that he had a sister only he could see. He said she came out of mirrors as if she were made of thin air and that she lived with Satan himself in a palace at the bottom of a lake.

Cdo liber, cdo vellim qe shikon ketu ka shpirtin e vet, shpirtin e atij qe e ka shkruar dhe te atyre qe e kane lexuar, te atij qe ka jetuar e te atij qe ka enderruar permes tij. Sa here qe nje liber nderron zot, sa here qe nje veshtrim i ri fluturon mbi fletet e tij, shpirti i librit rimerr fuqi.

Cada libro tiene una alma, el alma de quien lo escribió y el de quienes lo han leído y soñado con él.

Tori gives a nervous nod. She imagines that all sorts of things could go wrong with it. The human body isn't supposed to be transformed into such a device. She assumes that she'll be calling this number a lot.

Somewhere on the other side of this wide night and the distance between us, I am thinking of you. The room is turning slowly away from the moon. This is pleasurable. Or shall I cross that out and say it is sad? In one of the tenses I singing an impossible song of desire that you cannot hear. La lala la. See? I close my eyes and imagine the dark hills I would have to cross to reach you. For I am in love with you and this is what it is like or what it is like in words.

Ashley and I glanced at each other. We saw Tony King at a concert last summer. We got his autograph, too, so we stood close to him. No way was that man Tony King, even without the beard! Boy, Natasha had a wild imagination. Last night, she told us that another man was an escaped prisoner. She'd seen his picture on the TV show Criminals on the Loose. Later, Ashley and I found out the man was the assistant manager of the lodge.

I always had plenty of ideas. I didn't exactly have them. They grew—little by little, a half an idea at a time. First, part of a phrase and then a person to go with it. After a person, then a little corner of a place for the person to be in.

To be a romantic is to believe anything can happen to us.

A childhood is what anyone wants to remember of it.  It leaves behind no fossils, except perhaps in fiction.

The men, her husband and sons, leave for the quarry at seven o'clock sharp and return at five. What do they imagine she does all day? It makes her shiver to think of it, how not one pair of eyes can see through the roof and walls of her house and regard her as she moves through her dreamlike days, bargaining from minute to minute with indolence, that tempter.

At the edge of every experience is the refracted light of recollection, snagged there like an image in a beveled mirror.

Well, what the heck, poets are supposed to be odd, aren't they?

of cattle, a bringer of dreams