Quotes About Imagination

Era a todas luces una de esas mujeres cuyas pulidas palabras pueden reflejar un club del libro, o un club de bridge, o cualquier otro aburrido convencionalismo, pero nunca su alma; mujeres carentes por completo de imaginación; mujeres absolutamente indiferentes, en el fondo, a cualquiera de la docena de temas posibles de conversación en una sala de estar

And for a minute she became thoughtful, ac- complishing during that one minute, as sometimes hap- pens, a long leisurely journey: she set off into Luzhin's past, dragging Valentinov with her, visualizing him, from his voice, in horn rimmed spectacles and long-legged, and as she journeyed through the mi^t she looked for a spot where she could dump the slippery, repulsively wriggling Valentinov, but she could not find one because she knew almost nothing about Luzhin's youth.

Yet if prior to life we had Been able to imagine life, what mad, Impossible, unutterably weird, Wonderful nonsense it might have appeared!

Palm trees are all right only in mirages.

Najdraži san jednog autora jeste da pretvori ?itaoca u gledaoca.

When I try to analyze my own cravings, motives, actions and so forth, I surrender to a sort of retrospective imagination which feeds the analytic faculty with boundless alternatives and which causes each visualized route to fork and re-fork without end in the maddeningly complex prospect of my past. I am convinced, however, that in a certain magic and fateful way Lolita began with Annabel.

The muse of invention handed me a rifle and I shot a white bear who sat down and said: Ah.

Esiste, nella scala dimensionale del mondo, un punto di incontro tra conoscenza ed immaginazione. Un punto al quale si perviene rimpicciolendo le cose grandi ed ingrandendo quelle piccole.

The cell was filled to the ceiling with the oils of twilight, containing extraordinary pigments

Cincinnatus, after passing many other doors, stumbled, hopped, and found himself in a small courtyard, filled with various parts of the dismantled moon.

against the background of that black velvet which lines at night the underside of the eyelids, Marthe's face appeared as in a locket

Blunders, gropings, disappointment; surely the Cupid serving him was left-handed, with a weak chin and no imagination. And alongside these feeble romances there had been hundreds of girls of whom he had dreamed but whom he had never got to know; they had just slid past him, leaving for a day or two that hopeless sense of loss which makes beauty what it is: a distant lone tree against golden heavens; ripples of light on the inner curve of a bridge; a thing quite impossible to capture

I have always had a number of parts lined up in case the muse failed. A lepidopterist exploring famous jungles came first, then there was the chess grand master, then the tennis ace with an unreturnable service, then the goalie saving a historic shot, and finally, finally, the author of a pile of unknown writings- Pale Fire, Lolita, Ada- which my heirs discover and publish.

But that mimosa grove--the haze of stars, the tingle, the flame, the honey-dew, and the ache remained with me, and that little girl with her seaside limbs and ardent tongue haunted me ever since--until at last, twenty-four years later, I broke her spell by incarnating her in another.

Imagine me; I shall not exist if you do not imagine me;

Not knowing how to write, but sensing with my criminal intuition how words are combined, what one must do for a commonplace word to come alive and to share its neighbor's sheen, heat, shadow, while reflecting itself in its neighbor and renewing the neighboring word in the process, so that the whole line is live iridescence…

So I lingered there, pretending, in front of my own self, that I had something to write

We are absurdly accustomed to the miracle of a few written signs being able to contain immortal imagery, involutions of thought, new worlds with live people, speaking, weeping , laughing... I wish you to gasp not only at what you read but at the miracle of its being readable.

Memory is a photo-studio de luxe on an infinite Fifth Power Avenue.

sex is but the ancilla of art

The true measure of genius is in what measure the world he has created is his own, one that has not been here before him (at least, here, in literature) and, even more important, how plausible he has succeeded in making it.

Art is a divine game.

Stop moping! she would cry: Look at the harlequins! What harlequins? Where? Oh, everywhere. All around you. Trees are harlequins, words are harlequins. So are situations and sums. Put two things together jokes, images and you get a triple harlequin. Come on! Play! Invent the world! Invent reality!

Nuestra imaginación vuela, nosotros somos su sombra en la tierra.