Quotes About Imagination

I've seen other universes. I've been to them. And I destroyed them.

Dream up something wild and improbable. Something beautiful and full of monsters. -Beautiful and full of monsters? -All the best stories are.

Once upon a time, an angel and a devil fell in love and dared to imagine a new way of living—one without massacres and torn throats and bonfires of the fallen, without revenants or bastard armies or children ripped from their mothers' arms to take their turn in the killing and dying. This was not that world.

I write because, as wonderful as life is - and it is truly wonderful - it isn't enough. It does not, for example, contain dragons. I find this unsatisfactory. So I read. And I write.

Skathis might have been an artist, but he'd been a vile one. Strange the dreamer was an artist, too, and he was the antidote to vile.

There were no books to hide behind, and no shadows—only Lazlo Strange in his worn gray robes, with his nose that had been broken by fairy tales, looking like the hero of no story ever told. Or. No story yet told.

Every mind is a world of its own

Eril-Fane let out a slow breath. "Were you afraid of the dark as a child?" A chill snaked up Lazlo's spine. He thought again of the crypt at the abbey, and the nights locked in with dead monks. "Yes," he said simply. "Even when you knew, rationally, that there was nothing in it that could harm you." "Yes." "Well. We are all children in the dark, here in Weep.

In the thick of play, his daydreams were so vivid that a glimpse of reality would have shocked him.

I want to terrify little kids, too! I want to build spires in their minds and dance shadows through like marionettes, chased by whispers and hints of the unspeakable. I want to torture future generations with the Puppet That Bites.

He believed in magic, like a child, and in ghosts, like a peasant. His nose was broken by a falling volume of fairy tales his first day on the job, and that, they said, told you everything you needed to know about strange Lazlo Strange: head in the clouds, world of his own, fairy tales and fancy.

Because if Lazlo thought a dream could not be stolen, he underestimated Thyon Nero.

Karou enjoyed the idea that you could "believe what you want," as though reality were a buffet line. If only. Triple helpings of cake, please.

What was he? Storyteller and secretary and doer of odd jobs, neither Tizerkane nor delegate, just someone along for the dream.

He didn't think like other people. He didn't dismiss magic out of hand, and he didn't believe that fairy tales were just for children. He knew magic was real, because he'd felt it

Well, I'm no alchemist," Lazlo said, affable. "You know me, Strange the dreamer, head in the clouds." He paused and added with a grin, "Miracles for breakfast.

A pause came between them, and it was so full of Akiva that Karou imagined she could smell him.

They were both fomidable, but they were also the two people he cared most about in the world-Worlds-and he just wanted to carry them safley forward to the future he imagined, in which no one's life was at stake and the hardest decision of any given day might be what to eat for breakfast, or where to make love.

Strange the dreamer was an artist, too, and he was the antidote to vile.

Here, captured between covers, was the history of the human imagination, and nothing had ever been more beautiful, or fearsome, or bizarre. Here were spells and curses and myths and legends, and Strange the dreamer had for so long fed his mind on them that if one could wander into it, they would discover a fantasia.

Lazlo had loved Sarai as a dream, and he would love her as a ghost as well.

Which is what one always hopes will happen: for life to take over and be bigger and more marvelous than what we can dream up on our own.

And the space where his legend was gathering up words grew larger. Because this story was not over yet.

Not that I'm not keen to talk to him. I am --in the fantasy version of tonight, anyway, in which I actually manage to string words into sentences, and not just random magnetic-poetry sentences, but sentences that don't lead to the logical conclusion that I have brain damage.