Quotes About Imagination

Now that the real and the imagined had collided, he wondered if she, like he, longed for the past, for the normal. He wondered if normalcy was something, like vision or silence, you didn't realize was precious until you lost it.

One of the things he loved about Clary was how easily caught up in her imagination she was, how easily she could wall herself away in illusory worlds of curses and princes and destiny and magic. Once he had been able to do the same... Now that the real and the imagined had collided, he wondered if she, like he, longed for the past, for the normal. He wondered if normalcy was something, like a vision or silence, you didn't realize it was precious until you lost it.

And very amusing it is to watch," said Jem. "Did you know you twitch your nose when you sleep, like a rabbit?" "I do not," she said, with a whispered laugh.- In my dreams (Chapter 17) deleted scene- Clockwork Prince

They're here right now?" Clary sputtered. "But—I'm wearing a T-shirt that says 'Unicorn Power'—" "There are no such things as unicorns," Jace said. "I know," Clary said. "That's why it's funny

Horror, for me, has to involve some sort of fantasy. Horror is something that is in your dreams or your nightmares.

Every time a writer creates a character with a particularly troubled background (or a kinky sexual bent) it seems that somebody in the "real world" assumes that the writer is working from personal experience.

Dr. Seuss' The Cat in the Hat is a picture book meritable of every child reader, whether he or she is just a beginner, or a bit more advanced.

The style in which I express myself, poetically, is one of appreciable literary inspiration.

When a man that attractive licks his lips, a girl's got to look. And imagine...

it with the eye of an interior decorator, and there were possibilities everywhere she looked. She moved

Make a story for me, yes? About my Loh-rhett-ah when she was small like Blackbird." She stared at him, clearly unable to believe he meant it. He forced a yawn, and from the look that crossed her small face, he knew he hadn't been very convincing. "You're not sleepy," she accused. " Ka , no," he admitted.

Make me a story." "Hunter, I don't have a stitch of clothes on," she squeaked. One of his dark eyebrows flicked upward. "You must have clothes to make stories?

Her stories do not bring in a realism in which

Cinema is still a very young art form with extraordinary techniques and very impressive special effects but sometimes it seems the soul has been taken out of things.

I would have liked maybe to be in architecture or painting, something connected to the fine arts.

Each cup of tea represents an imaginary voyage.

Writing is not apart from living. Writing is a kind of double living.

Writing, I think, is not apart from living. Writing is a kind of double living. The writer experiences everything twice. Once in reality and once in that mirror which waits always before or behind.

Writing is a kind of double living. The writer experiences every thing twice. Once in reality and once in that mirror which waits always before or behind.

Writing, I think, is not apart from living. Writing is a kind of double living. The writer experiences everything twice. Once in reality and once in the mirror which waits always before or behind

Because I have dreams and in those dreams I see the stars

In the Sapient tongue he said softly, 'Tell me, Master, did you know Incarceron was tiny?' 'Is it?' Sapphique replied in the same language, his green eyes as he looked up lit by deep points of flame. 'To you, perhaps. Not to its Prisoners. Every prison is a universe for its inmates. And think, Jared Sapiens. Might not the Realm also be tiny, swinging from the watchchain of some being in a world even vaster?

When you draw, you copy the world don't you? You remake it on paper, but it isn't the same. It's yours. No one else could have created it just like that. When I make poems, I use the words we all use, but the order and the sound create a new power. This wood is someone's creation. We stumble through it's tendrils, as if we're crawling through the synapses of his mind.

All my life I have dreamed of you.