Quotes About Imagination

She wanted to return to her dream. Perhaps it was still somewhere there behind her closed eyelids. Perhaps a little of its happiness still clung like gold dust to her lashes. Don't dreams in fairy tales sometimes leave a token behind?

You really don't understand the first thing about writing...for one thing, early in the morning is the worst possible time. the brain is like a wet sponge at that hour. And for another, real writing is a question of staring into space and waiting for the right ideas.

Nothing chased nightmares away faster than the rustle of printed paper.

Thats beautiful! Sad and beautiful, murmured Meggie. Why were sad stories often so beautiful? It was different in real life.

As Mo had said: writing stories is a kind of magic, too.

Ist es nicht seltsam, wie viel dicker ein Buch wird, wenn man es mehrmals liest? [...] Als würde jedes Mal etwas zwischen den Seiten kleben bleiben. Gefühle, Gedanken, Geräusche, Gerüche ... Und wenn du dann nach vielen Jahren wieder in dem Buch blätterst, entdeckst du dich selbst darin, etwas jünger, etwas anders, als hätte das Buch dich aufbewahrt, wie eine gepresste Blüte, fremd und vertraut zugleich.

I think we should sometimes read stories where everything's different from our world, don't you agree? There's nothing's like it for teaching us to wonder why trees are green and not red, and why we have five fingers rather than six.' --spoken by The Bluejay, aka Mo the Bookbinder, from 'Inkdeath

We all know what fun it can be to get right into a book and live there for a while, but falling out of a story and suddenly finding yourself in this world doesn't seem to be much fun at all.

Let's be off before he gets his great horsey teeth into my poor lines of verse!

I remember the feeling. Whenever my father got so absorbed in a book that we might have been in visible I felt like taking a pair of scissors and cutting it up.

Why could she remember nothing but stories of frightened people when Capricorn looked at her? She usually found it so easy to escape somewhere else, to get right inside the minds of people and animals who existed only on paper, so why not now? Because she was afraid. Because fear kills everything, Mo had once told her. Your mind, your heart, your imagination.

Breath the words and they will come to life; as of words of magic

with every new day, Fenoglio's story was spinning a magic spell around her heart, sticky as spider's webs and enchantingly beautiful

What was a slap for ten pages of escapism, ten pages far from everything that made him unhappy, ten pages of real life instead of the monotony that other people called the real world?

She had only to open a door, nothing but a door between the words,just large enough for her and Farid to pass through....

For the hundredth time, she closed her eyes so she could see another room in her mind's eye, one with a curtain full of stars, and a mattress surrounded by books that whispered their stories to her at night. – Pg. 235

Stories always go on. They don't end on the last page any more than they begin on the first page

I know you all think I'm a magician, but I'm not. The magic comes out of the books themselves, and I have no more idea than you or any of your men how it works.

Every book should begin with attractive endpapers,' he had once told Meggie. 'Preferably in a dark color: dark red or dark blue depending on the binding. When you open the book it's like going to the theater. First you see the curtain. Then it's pulled aside and the show begins.

He looked so glorious. Just like the knights I had dreamed about when I was six years old, whacking at brambles iin our garden, imagining I was fighting dragons and giants with a sword that made me invincible and wearing armor that protected me from all the things that frightened me - older kids, dogs, a storm in the knight, or my little sister's questions about when our father would be coming back.

You're the one who says books have to be heavy because the whole world's inside of them, said Meggie...

Vielleicht war er ja noch da, irgendwo hinter ihren geschlossenen Lidern, vielleicht klebte ja noch etwas Glueck an ihren Wimpern, wie Goldstaub. Liessen Traeume in den Maerchen nicht manchmal so ertwas zurueck?

Yes, Mo would come. Meggie could think of nothing else as Fenoglio led her away with him, his arm around her as if he could really protect her from Capricorn and Basta and all the others. But he couldn't. Would Mo be able to protect her? Of course not. He mustn't come, she thought. Please. Perhaps he won't be able to find his way in again! He mustn't come. Yet there was nothing she wanted more, nothing in the whole wide world.

Meggie thought this first whisper sounded a little different from one book to another, depending on weather or not she already knew the story it was going to tell her.