Quotes About Imagination

Again his memory failed to conjure her face. It was like trying to call up a melody while another song played.

All evening long, real snow would fall from the ceiling to glitter on the lashes of dancing girls and ardent boys, but Neve and the Dreamer didn't linger. They had other things to do: *all* of them. All the things, dreamed and undreamed, in the depth and breadth of the whole spinning world.

All the bogeymen together, sitting down to tea.

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,

Without his books, Lazlo felt as though a vital link to his dream had been cut.

Strange the dreamer," they called him. "That dreamer, Strange.

Once you know magic is real, it's really hard to remember what it was like not to know.

She tasted of hope. Oh. What does that taste like? Pollen and stars, the Fallen said.

the stories poured from him, and Lazlo listened. He listened the way a cactus drinks rain. In

A dream, just a dream. Damn it. How had it gotten in? Lurking vulture dreams, circling, just waiting for her to nod off.

Plants...dreamed they were birds...and they found rich soil and sweet seas and plants that dreamed they were birds and drifted up to the clouds on leaves like wings.

Beautiful and full of monsters?" "All the best stories are.

His mind traced the arabesques and coils of an alphabet that looked like music sounded.

And when her hearts resumed beating, she imagined she could feel a spill of light into the veins that carried her spirit

She had been innocent once, a little girl playing with feathers on the floor of a devil's lair.

She looked across the street at herself—as seen, remembered, and conjured by the dreamer—and she didn't see obscenity, or calamity, or godspawn. She saw a proud, smiling girl with beautiful blue skin. Because that was what he saw, and this was his mind.

Dream up something wild and improbable.

Strange the dreamer - library stowaway and scholar of fairy tales - had never been thirstier, or more full of wonder.

They marked his first consideration that there might be other ways of living than the one he knew. Better, sweeter ways.

Such were the humble beginnings of the end of the world: the absence of dreams.

It wasn't simply a question of parlors and tea trays - though there was that, too. If she were coming in reality he would be limited by reality. But dreams were a different matter. He was Strange the Dreamer. This was his realm, and there were no limits here.

Karou loved Zuzana for her willingness to play out such silliness on a long kite string.

What she had shared with Akiva could not be touched by shame. Madrigal lifted her voice to say, "We dreamed together of the world remade.

What do you think I live on, rainwater and daydreams?