Quotes About Imagination

If I could have any job in the world I'd be a professional Cinderella.

That's not what I meant." "What?" "I want to know what you did with her." He looked at me. "Why?" he asked at last. "I don't know. So I can imagine it. So I can sleep." He started to speak, then stopped himself. Then he began again.

How do you know I'm a writer?" I asked. "I can tell," he said. "You're making shit up in your head all the time.

I think memories are like dreams. Not reliable proof of anything. I can't prove a memory any more than I can prove a dream.

People who love science fiction really do love sex.

Sometimes I think books are the only friends worth having.

Although my elephant is different than yours. Mine's bright purple and I like to lead him around on a leash and introduce him to people by name.

As long as I've got a book, it doesn't matter where I am. I can instantly be a million miles away, in a completely different place, on a different planet even. I can be someone else, you know? When it gets too complicated to be myself.

It's amazing to see things that are suggested in the book fully developed and so brilliantly realized through the artistry of the designers.

Oh, and I suppose the apples ate the cheese.

Real or not real?

I look at Peeta and he gives me a sad smile. I hear Haymitch's voice. "You could do a lot worse." At this moment, it's impossible to imagine how I could do any better. The gift...it is perfect. So when I rise up on my tiptoe to kiss him, it doesn't seem forced at all.

The problem is, I can't tell what's real anymore, and what's made up.

Sometimes when things are particularly bad, my brain will give me a happy dream.

You never know. Say the arena's actually a giant cake-" "Say we move on," I broke in.

Sometimes when things are particularly bad, my brain will give me a happy dream. [...] When I fully awaken, I'm momentarily comforted. I try to hold on to the peaceful feeling of the dream, but it quickly slips away, leaving me sadder than ever.

My mouth has gone dry as sawdust. I desperately find Cinna in the crowd and lock eyes with him. I imagine the words coming from his lips. 'What's impressed you most since you arrived here?' I rack my brain for something that made me happy here. Be honest, I think. Be honest.

I'm in a shallow hole, not filled with the humming orange bubbles of my hallucination but with old, dead leaves.

Today I might lose both of them. I try to imagine a world where both Gale's and Peeta's voices have ceased. Hands stilled. Eyes unblinking. I'm standing over their bodies, having a last look, leaving the room where they lie. But when I open the door to step out into the world, there's only a tremendous void. A pale grey nothingness that is all my future holds.

For me, it's better to wake up with a paintbrush than a knife in my hand. -Peeta

We're supposed to be making up this stuff, playing at being in love, not actually being in love.

Jackson has devised a game called "Real or Not Real" to help Peeta. He mentions something he thinks happened, and they tell him if it's true or imagined, usually followed by a brief explanation.

What young brains lack in experience they sometimes make up for in idealism. Nothing seems impossible to them.

Peeta crouches down on the other side of her and strokes her hair. When he begins to speak in a soft voice, it seems almost nonsensical, but the words aren't for me. "With my paint box at home, I can make every color imaginable. Pink. As pale as a baby's skin. Or as deep as rhubarb. Green like spring grass. Blue that shimmers like ice on water.