Quotes About Imagination

If you were a fanciful person, you might have said that it was almost as if that box was looking for Hiccup. But we are not fanciful people, and that would be ridiculous.

Books are like dragons....if we do not believe in them, and read them, they will cease to exist. How, then, will we learn the language and understand the stories of the dear dead ghosts of the past? Save the Dragons. Speak Dragonese. Read a book.

Norbert the Nutjob may have been a maniac, but lunacy and genius are very close together, and it had to be admitted, he was a great Dreamer. Perhaps the inventor-madmen of the Future will dream its like again.

But sometimes it isn't the spells themselves that are important. It is the clever ways you use them.

Sometimes, when I lie awake at night," said Wish, with big eyes, "I think I can hear, beyond the Wall, the sound of giants howling, as if they're being attacked by Witches… Don't you hear that, Bodkin? Are we supposed to just stay here, safe behind our Wall, and let that carry on?

Does this look like a dragon who would poo in a helmet???

Toothless crossed his eyes and made a gulping noise with his throat as if he was swallowing ... AAAAAAARGH! screamed Hiccup. Toothless spat Ziggerastica onto the floor. Only j-j-joking, he said.

In my beginning is my end....there were Dragons when I was a boy.

You, dear reader, I am sure cannot imagine what it might be like to live in a world in which books are banned. For surely, such things will never happen in the future? Thank Thor that you live in a time and a place where people have the right to live and think and write and read their books in peace, and there are no need for Heroes anymore… And spare a thought for those who have not been so lucky.

Keep hoping, keep guessing, keep dreaming.

Stories come from somewhere, said the witch. The past haunts the present in more ways than we realise.

What more do you need? Poetry? Poetry is in the living. Little Sister, in the dreaming. Nobody in the world can teach you that.

But, luckily, he kept his wits and his purple crayon.

The sandy beach reminded Harold of picnics. And the thought of picnics made him hungry. So he laid out a nice simple picnic lunch. There was nothing but pie. But there were all nine kinds of pie that Harold liked best. When Harold finished his picnic there was quite a lot left. He hated to see so much delicious pie go to waste. So Harold left a very hungry moose and a deserving porcupine to finish it up.

After I'd told her – the mall, the taxi, Cross stroking my hair – she said, 'Did he kiss you?' 'John and Martin totally would have seen that,' I said, and as I felt myself implying the circumstances had prevented our kissing, I thought maybe this was why you told stories to other people – for how their possibilities enlarged in the retelling.

But I was living my life sideway. I did not act on what I wanted, I did not say the things I thought, and being so stifled and clamped all the time left me exhausted; no matter what I was doing, I was always imagining something else.

If you were a writer, you could be impressive in a cerebral sort of way, but if you were a musician, you got to be viscerally magical.

Sometimes I think I've made so few mistakes that the public can remember all of them, in contrast to certain male politicians whose multitude of gaffes and transgressions gets jumbled in the collective imagination, either negated by one another or forgotten in the onslaught.

I want to open myself up, I want to experience other dimensions, I don't want to be bound by the rules of this world. Does that make me a freak?

Sometimes I think I've made so few mistakes that the public can remember all of them, in contrast to certain male politicians whose multitude of gaffes and transgressions gets jumbled in the collective imagination, either negated by one another or forgotten in the onslaught. The less you screw up, the more clearly the public keeps track of each error.

She was the reason I was a reader, and being a reader was what had made me most myself; it had given me the gifts of curiosity and sympathy, an awareness of the world as an odd and vibrant and contradictory place, and it had made me unafraid of its oddness and vibrancy and contradictions.

A dystopian story must not merely be dystopian; it must also be a story. Premise can only get you so far.

Everybody of my generation has the same memory. We were twelve or thirteen or we were twenty-one, for that matter, and we were going to be veterinarians or we were, like Ringo, going to own a hairdresser's parlor. We walked into the record store and saw the cover of Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. We thought together, 'Life can be other than it has been.

He loved life. He loved the stars silently glowing down at him tonight. He loved even the gray, lifeless rock, which recalled to his imaginative genius the terrific and interesting life that had once existed--he loved the ghostly majesty of the grave-like pinnacle that rose above him, and beyond that he loved all the world. But most of all, more than his own life or all that a thousand lives might hold for him, he loved the violet-eyed girl. - Country Beyond.