Quotes About Imagination

Perhaps we shouldn't try to answer the questions now - let's just note them down. Maurice always said the power in a question is not in the answer, it's in the way the imagination gets busy when the question is at work.

I reckon, Billy, that there's such a thing as serendipity, that if you are meant to move on, you will. And I believe that if you imagine, and keep on imagining, a better life for your family, then events will conspire to present the opportunity to you. And when that time comes, you will make your decision, one way or another." "Bit of a gamble, though, ain't it?" "So is staying in one spot." Epilogue

And so another storyteller fell asleep that night thinking not of the telling of the story but of the possibilities inherent in color and texture

She knew the worries that came to the fore at night were the ones you had to pay attention to, for they blurred reasoned thought, sucked clarity from any consideration of one's situation, and could lead a mind around in circles, leaving one drained and ill-tempered. And if there was no one close with whom to discuss those concerns, they grew in importance in the imagination, whether they were rooted in good sense or not.

And we've both learned the value of allowing only the very best pictures into our minds—so instead of imagining the terrible alternatives, make sure you see your son walking into the house and calling your name. See him coming home. Always see him coming home. Every time you think of something untoward, banish it straightaway—restrict your mind to the most wonderful thoughts of your boys.

But I don't want to go among mad people," Alice remarked. "Oh, you can't help that," said the Cat. "We're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad." "How do you know I'm mad?" said Alice. "You must be," said the Cat, "or you wouldn't have come here." —LEWIS CARROLL, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland

When there are many worlds you can choose the one you walk into each day.

Then I let the stories live inside my head, again and again until the real world fades back into cricket lullabies and my own dreams.

How can I explain to anyone that stories are like air to me, I breathe them in and let them out over and over again.

I want to catch words one day. I want to hold them then blow gently, watch them float right out of my hands.

The beloved's features too were standardized in certain adjectives of color and shape and likened to natural objects, fruit and flowers especially. As a result, ingenuity in finding fresh ways to follow the pattern was required in addition to actual poetic powers. The challenge was great and it accounts for the quantity of verbal lovemaking in the blue, addressed to the remote or non-existent tribes of Celias and Delias.

What we ask of a writer in the first place is a unique voice. We ask for the rest later, and we may even pretend that it is only the later things we required -- no personal, individual, induplicable quality, just pure art.

I quite understand how we are driven to lead statistical lives, but I repeat that it is the duty of art to make us imagine the particular; to make us understand that the rights of one human being are not a fraction of the rights of more than one, and at the same time that in any situation of collective evil, the suffering is felt by no more than one person; only one feels the bitter agony of injustice, only one dies

I swam across the rocks and compared myself favorably with the sars. To swim fishlike, horizontally, was the logical method in a medium eight hundred times denser than air. To halt and hang attached to nothing, no lines or air pipe to the surface, was a dream. At night I had often had visions of flying by extending my arms as wings. Now I flew without wings. (Since that first aqualung flight, I have never had a dream of flying.)

Silner's hut we called it. There he spent his free time, surrounded by boxes and cans (we use the spar deck to store everything that we have no other space for), doing those mysterious things that all photographers seem to do when left to themselves.

La cometa es una niña de viento que desde el cielo le enseña a un niño a volar en los espacios del suelo.

Nevertheless we cherish all books, especially the unread ones, for who knows what secrets they might yield one day? —p.397, as by Larry Zagorski, in his short story The City of the Sun

her music; its unmatched poetic shape and impact, which, like metaphor in language, breaks out of its own restrictions and — with vast imaginal inference and resonance — expresses for us things yet unknown.

Maybe books are best, because you don't have to have money to read... A man can travel all over the world and come back the same kind of fool he was when he started. You can't do that with books.

Poets are simply people who see things two ways. Like children, as if they had never seen them before. Like old men, as if they would never see them again.

I)f you did not read when you were young, you might never catch the disease and then what would be the use of living?

A novel…is a golden kettle into which you pour all of experience… You can toss in great chunks of meat and fragrant bones and stock left over from the meals before. You can add fragments of character or the whole man. You can have scenes that fill a quarter of the book and others that flash by in a fleeting glance. In a novel there's nothing you can't do, if you do it with passion.

explained: "It happened, but only in the mind of the writer. And, of course, in your mind, too. That's what a novel is. The exchange of dreams.

But in spring, of course, any place is beautiful, because in spring fires leap from your heart, and you can see things that aren't there.