Quotes About Imagination

As I write, there rises somewhere in my head that queer and very pleasant sense of something which I want to write; my own point of view...

No doubt we should be, on the whole, much worse off than we are without our astonishing gift for illusion.

It is the duty of the writer to describe.

I want to raise up the magic world all round me and live strongly and quietly there.

Thinking was torment; why not give up thinking, and drift and dream?

Perhaps it was better not to see pictures: they only made one hopelessly discontented with one's own work.

Who would not spout the family teapot in order to talk with Keats for an hour about poetry, or with Jane Austen about the art of fiction?

Oh, to awake from dreaming!

Am dorit întotdeauna s? dilat noaptea È™i s? o umplu din ce în ce mai mult cu vise.

But what little I can get down into my pen of what is so vivid to my eyes, and not only to my eyes; also to some nervous fibre, or fanlike membrane in my species.

Her horizon seemed to her limitless. There were all the places she had not seen;

The green garden, moonlit pool, lemons, lovers, and fish are all dissolved in the opal sky, across which, as the horns are joined by trumpets and supported by clarions there rise white arches firmly planted on marble pillars...

Intellectual freedom depends upon material things. Poetry depends upon intellectual freedom.

Fiction here is likely to contain more truth than fact.

You're going to go on dreaming and imagining and making up stories about me as you walk along the street, and pretending that we're riding in a forest, or landing on an island —' 'No. I shall think of you ordering dinner, paying bills, doing the accounts, showing old ladies the relics —

Never had any boy begged apples as Orlando begged paper; nor sweetmeats as he begged ink. Stealing away from talk and games, he had hidden himself behind curtains, in priest's holes, or in the cupboard behind his mother's bedroom which had a great hole in the floor and smelt horribly of starling's dung, with an inkhorn in one hand, a pen in another, and on his knee a roll of paper.

Shakespeare} the word-coining genius, as if thought plunged into a sea of words and came up dripping

The reason why it is easy to kill another person must be that one's imagination is too sluggish to conceive what his life means to him - the infinite possibilities of a succession of days which are furled in him, & have already been spent.

There was all the difference in the world between this planning airily away from the canvas and actually taking her brush and making the first mark.

Shakespeare's state of mind

Even the names of the books gave me food for thought.

I have had my vision

You come and see me among flowers and pictures, and think me mysterious, romantic, and all the rest of it. Being yourself very inexperienced and very emotional, you go home and invent a story about me, and now you can't separate me from the person you've imagined me to be. You call that, I suppose, being in love; as a matter of fact it's being in delusion.

Up goes the rocket. Its golden grain falls, fertilising, upon the rich soil of my imagination.