Quotes About Imagination

Here, in your mind, you have complete privacy. Here there's no difference between what is and what could be.

The desire in our minds is as real as the thirst in our throats.

If stars were notes upon a musical sky the night what a song of beauty!

The moon was but a chin of gold A night or two ago, And now she turns her perfect face Upon the world below. Her forehead is of amplest blond; Her cheek like beryl stone; Her eye unto the summer dew The likest I have known... And what a privilege to be But the remotest star! For certainly her way might pass Beside your twinkling door. Her bonnet is the firmament, The universe her shoe, The stars the trinkets at her belt, Her dimities of blue.

The stars were mingled with my dreams...

I rest in rainbows and I nest in clouds I'd live in raindrops if only I knew how

Dreams grow like wildflowers in her soul.

Moonlight is sculpture: sunlight is painting.

The sun is not only a painter but a sculptor.

...truth cannot overcome its old habit of being stranger than fiction.

Stories live in typewriters. Try a different typewriter — you may get a different story.

I for one have always believed in the unicorn... The unicorn has managed to weave itself a very haunting reputation.

Being a person is getting too complicated. Time to be a unicorn.

When someone told me that I live in a fantasyland, I nearly fell off my unicorn.

Women don't fart — it's just glittery puffs of unicorn giggles.

Hey, I like unicorns. Unicorns are just weaponized ponies.

Unicorns are just horny ponies.

But men are so serious. Why? Why violence? Why hatred? Why war? If people want to make war, they should make a colour war, and paint each others city up during the night in pinks and greens.

The sea was an abstract painting: a band of azure sky above a swatch of indigo water above a ribbon of wet brown sand above a smear of hazel beach... It seemed like the kind of place you might encounter in dreams: too raw and wild to be real, yet somehow familiar at the same time, an ancient impression belonging to my species, imprinted in my genetic code, a knowledge deeper than memory.

When I glimpse the backs of women's knees I seem to hear the first movement of Beethoven's Pastoral Symphony.

How much pain have cost us the evils which have never happened!

Author: a dancer of typewriter keys.

Your writing chamber isn't the office or the study — it's your heart.

An author plants the alphabet — and harvests flowers, nourishment, and weeds.