Quotes About Imagination

cuál es el estado mental más propicio al acto de creación?, me pregunté. ¿Puede uno formarse una idea del estado mental que favorece y hace posible esta extraña actividad?

One of these days d'you think you'll be able to see things at the end of the telephone? Peggy said, getting up.

As summer neared, as the evenings lengthened, there came to the wakeful, the hopeful, walking the beach, stirring the pool, imaginations of the strangest kind--of flesh turned to atoms which drove before the wind...

She could not imagine Peter or Richard taking the trouble to give a party for no reason whatever.

and let there be new forms and stranger

If one shuts one's eyes and thinks of the novel as a whole, it would seem to be a creation owning a certain looking-glass likeness to life, though of course with simplifications and distortions innumerable.

Il gusto per i libri era nato presto in lui. Fanciullo, un paggio lo trovava talvolta a mezzanotte ancora intento a leggere. Gli toglievano il candelabro, ed egli allevava delle lucciole per sostituirlo. Gli toglievano le lucciole, ed egli per poco non metteva a fuoco la casa con una esca. Per dirla in nuce, lasciando al novelliere la cura di spianar le infinite pieghe della seta delle nostre anime, Orlando era un aristocratico malato d'amore per la letteratura.

but how speak to a man who does not see you? who sees ogres, satyrs, perhaps the depths of the sea instead?

Fiction must stick to facts, and the truer the facts the better the fiction.

Thus, when one takes a sentence of Mr B into the mind it falls plump to the ground— dead; but when one takes a sentence of Coleridge into the mind, it explodes and gives birth to all kinds of other ideas, and that is the only sort of writing of which one can say that it has the secret of perpetual life.

made up, as one makes up the better part of life...making oneself up; ...creating an exquisite amusement...

I keep my phrases hung like clothes in a cupboard, waiting for someone to wear them.

She was haunted by the ghosts of phrases. She gave herself up to a sensual delight in the combinations of words. She sought them in the pages of her favorite authors.

And as she lost consciousness of outer things, and her name and her personality and her appearance, and whether Mr. Carmichael was there or not, her mind kept throwing up from its depths, scenes, and names, and sayings, and memories and ideas, like a fountain spurting over that glaring, hideously difficult white space, while she modelled it with greens and blues.

Poiché una volta che il baco dei libri si è impadronito del sistema umano, lo indebolisce tanto che esso diventa una facile preda per quell'altro flagello, quello che si annida in fondo ai calamai e i cui germi pullulano in cima alla penna. La vittima incomincia a scrivere.

But what are stories? Toys I twist, bubbles I blow, one ring passing through another. And sometimes I begin to doubt if there are stories.

The nerve which controls the pen winds itself about every fibre of our being, threads the heart, pierces the liver.

If Shakespeare had never existed, he asked, would the world have differed much from what it is today?

Lock up your libraries if you like; but there is no gate, no lock, no bolt, that you can set upon the freedom of my mind.

Todavia, em meio ao alvoroço desses pensamentos, alguma coisa se ergueu, como uma cúpula de mármore branco e liso, que, verdadeira ou imaginária, impressionou tanto sua fervilhante imaginação que Orlando se fixou sobre ela como um enxame de vibrantes libélulas pousa, com evidente satisfação, sobre a redoma de vidro que protege alguma tenra plantinha.

Én, kezemben a jegyzetfüzetemmel, kifejezéseket gyártva, csupán a változásokat jegyeztem; árnyék-magam csak az árnyakat figyelte szorgalmasan. Hogyan folytassam utamat, mondtam, én nélkül, súlytalanul, látomások nélkül egy súlytalan és illúziók nélkül való világban?

Do you exist? Have I made you up?

And all the time Ralph was well aware that the bulk of Katharine was not represented in his dreams at all, so that when he met her he was bewildered by the fact that she had nothing to do with his dream of her. When

But if there are no stories, what end can there be, or what beginning?