Quotes About Imagination

Lives have apocalypses, too. You just can't know when you're in it until the water is already closing over your head and all you can hear are volcanoes, one after the other, detonating the possibility of the future you imagined.

Then we'd go to sleep and dream the same dreams. We always dreamed the same dreams, which was like living twice.

A child equals the mass of Fairyland times the speed of luck squared.

How dare they speak so unkindly of stories? Stories never did anything to them! Stories are only here to love you and look after you and show you a good time… Stories don't even ask anything in return but not to have grape juice spilled on them, and, every once in a while, to be thought of fondly, years and years after you shut their covers.

She could be quite brave in the presence of a Wyverary, but tall and lovely ladies made her shy, even if they were made of soap.

I suppose because it's boring to keep telling stories where people just get born and grow up and get married and die. So they add strange things in, to make it interesting when a person is born, more satisfying when they get married, sadder when they die.

Magic has a logic, like algebra. Once you get to know it, it's easy. If this, then that. You write with a pencil, you don't make frog soup with it.

Anyway, nobody bothers with real beginnings anymore. We stopped making up stories about the creation of the world ages ago.

September suddenly realized something. "But Ell, Orrery begins with O! How can you know so much about it?" The Wyverary soared high, his neck stretching into a long red ribbon, full of words and pies and relief and flying. "I'm growing up!" he cried.

We always dreamed the same dreams, which was like living twice.

They knew all about the war with France from Papa's magazines. But whenever they tried to imagine what a war was actually like, it unfolded in their heads like a cross between a chess game, a horse race, a country dance, and a very racy night at the theater.

Narrators may go where they please.

Dreams keep the heart alive.

What is the purpose of a Fairyland if everything lovely is outlawed, just like in the real world?

September read often, and liked it best when words did not pretend to be simple, but put on their full armor and rode out with colors flying.

how we met." Roary pulled a cooked apple out of her—apparently cavernous—pocket. She munched on it. "You guys saved us from the witch. It was awesome." Jess shuddered, getting into the spirit of her story. "The swamp was huge and soggy and mucky and full of snakes and birds and the moon and quiet. But there's not much good building material in swamps. Not like orchards or mountains. Not for what I like to make, anyway.

It was only a dream. Sometimes they say that, at the end of stories, in the land where Milo was born. And then I woke up—it was only a dream. Stories here do not end like that. I cannot wake up. I do not sleep.

I want to skip this part. I want to pull on the arm of my slot machine and let the rolls flip over until they show a green tree in the summertime, and me away from that house, walking tall under a blue sky.

And the funny, impish magic of a wrap party is that everyone still has scraps of their characters hanging off them like Salome's veils, fluttering, fading, but not quite finished tangling the tongue and tripping the feet. You're not in Wonderland anymore, but you positively reek of rabbit.

Just a kid with hair the color of raisins and eyes the color of grape jelly, living the life glasstastic in a four bedroom wine bottle on the east end of Plum Pudding...

Ohio is historically a healthy place for science fiction writers

On the other side of the jelly-glass docking hatch they could see, improbably, impossibly, a hyperactive red panda jumping up and down and waving his paws at them.

She still longed for the best heights of magic, to see dragons and mermaids, to see the naked world.

Ivan said, If only we could eat violin music.