Quotes About Imagination

Our most important thinking machines will not be machines that can think what we think faster, better, but those that think what we can't think.

Re-visioning the ordinary is what art, literature, and comedy do.You can elevate mundane details into magical wonders simply by noticing them.

Question makers will be seen, properly, as the engines that generate the new fields, new industries, new brands, new possibilities, new continents that our restless species can explore. Questioning is simply more powerful than answering.

I have not met a speculative utopia I would want to live in. I'd be bored in utopia. Dystopias, their dark opposites, are a lot more entertaining.

The stone did not respond or at least I don't think it did, but I imagined it answering quietly, telling me that my left hand and my right hand are made up of atoms from different stars and I looked this up in a library book later and discovered that theoretical physics did indeed affirm the awesomeness.

Because at bottom, I'm interested in fear, and in courage and cowardice and these are easier to get at through fiction, where you can enter people's heads.

The writer crafts their ideal world. In my world, everyone has really long conversations or just picks apart pop culture to death and everyone talks in monologue.

You can have 10 bucks to 10 million bucks and if you got a crew, imagination and a lot of people willing to turn in some work next to nothing, you going to have a feature. But you can't get beyond how expensive marketing the movie is, it's so crushing.

Wyoming, to Annie, was represented by a blank, bleak space in her imagination. It was a place she could hide. The worst that could happen would be that she would sleep with Daniel and then get eaten by a wolf. She could live with that.

From that point on, I guess I sort of realized that my imagination, which made life tolerable, needed to be kept a secret from the rest of the world.

This was how you did it, how you raised children. You built them a house that was impervious to danger and then you gave them every single thing that they could ever want, no matter how impossible. You read to them at night. Why couldn't people figure this out?

These weird thoughts come into my head, and I don't even really want to think about it, but I can't let go of it until I take it as far as I can, until I reach some kind of ending, and then I can move on. That's what writing is like for me.

I want to be an artist," he told me, like we were both admitting that we weren't human. We didn't understand how normal this was, to be young, to believe that you were destined to make beautiful things.

She had tried for months now to think of her own performance, some unique revelation of the absurdity of life, but she had no capacity for new ideas. She could see an existing artwork and understand why it was or was not successful. But she could not take that knowledge and arrange it into something wholly original, or even a reinterpretation of that existing piece. She was, as Hobart had explained to her, as kindly as possible, simply a critic.

My imagination, which made life tolerable, needed to be kept a secret from the rest of the world. But if you keep something hidden away, all tied up, it's hard to summon it when you really need it.

Well, you ever been to Nebraska before?" asked Arden. "I've flown over it a few times," Buster said, "I would imagine." For the rest of the ride to Buster's hotel, there was the all-encompassing sound of five men not talking, the radio broken and filled with static, the car's engine going just a little faster than it had before.

As he sat in the airport bar and drank glass after glass of lemon-lime soda and ate handfuls of peanuts and pretzels, he had decided that, should someone ask, he was not a real child but a robot built and designed by a scientific genius. A childless couple had ordered him and he was now being delivered to them in Florida. Beep-bop-boop.

I prefer to be a dreamer among the humblest, with visions to be realized, than lord among those without dreams and desires.

Trust in dreams, for in them is hidden the gate to eternity.

They would no longer be time-bound, that they were free to live in the future, the past, in fantasy. She had been a woman preparing to live, not living.

Sometimes, child, we die in metaphor.

Love and memory and thought and dream ~ My favorite poems have never been written in words.

That night and for years afterward, she had envisioned another dream land, built from the imaginings of powerful women dreamers. Perhaps it would have fewer gods, she thought as she watched the moon vanish over the horizon, leaving her in the darkness of the ninety-seven stars.

He loved who he was: Randolph Carter, master dreamer, adventurer. To him, she had been landscape, an articulate crag he could ascend, a face to put to his place. When were women ever anything but footnotes to men's tales?