Quotes About Imagination

I closed my eyes to watch tiny dancers like jeweled birds cross the dark screen of my eyelids.

She's never where she is,' I said. 'She's only inside her head.

She's never where she is,' I said. 'She's only inside her head.

I wandered through the stacks, running my hands along the spines of the books on the shelves, they reminded me of cultured or opinionated guests at a wonderful party, whispering to each other.

Who am I? I am who I say I am and tomorrow someone else entirely. You are too nostalgic, you want memory to secure you, console you. The past is a bore. What matters is only oneself and what one creates from what one has learned. Imagination uses what it needs and discards the rest— where you want to erect a museum. Don't hoard the past, Astrid. Don't cherish anything. Burn it. The artist is the phoenix who burns to emerge.

He was so damn perverse, he preferred to dream it than to make it come true.

What happened to a dream without a dreamer?

A novel is like a dream in which everyone is you. They're all parts of yourself.

I imagined my soul taking in these words like silicated water in the Petrified Forest, turning my wood to patterned agate. I liked it when my mother shaped me this way. I thought clay must feel happy in the good potter's hand.

I wished I could shut it in a locket to wear aroung my neck. I wish a thousand-year sleep would find us, at this absolute second, like the sleep over the castle of Sleeping Beauty.

Memory is the fourth landscape.

This was the wonderful thing about strangers. They were big blank pieces of paper, you could draw whatever you liked on their impressionable surfaces.

Their love as a dragonfly, skimming over Echo Park, stopping to visit the lotus. They weren't going to be like everyone else, they were Blaise and Jeanne, eating dreams and drinking blue sky.

I suppose they cannot imagine what a person might be called upon to endure, when a line of poetry can mean the difference between strength and despair.

It's magic, Astrid. You have to know how to reach up and pull beauty out of thin air.

Of course I did, I was blank, anyone could fill me in. I waited to see who I would be, what they would create on my delicious vacancy.

I wished I could draw the way her broad-shouldered body threw a shadow on the moonpale dust. How brave she looked just then.

It's the difference between a true artist and everybody else. Claire sighed. They can remake the world.

I realized as I walked through the neighborhood how each house could contain a completely different reality. In a single block, there could be fifty separate worlds.

Michael used to draw self-portraits with nightmares hidden in his curls.

the gamelan created in the listener a brain wave beyond all alphas and betas and thetas, a brain wave that paralyzed the normal channels of thought and forced new ones to grow outside them, in the untouched regions of the mind, like parallel blood vessels that form to accommodate a damaged heart.

She's never where she is," I said. "She's only inside her head.

I wandered through the stacks, running my hands along the spines of the books on the shelves, they reminded me of cultured or opinionated guests at a wonderful party, whispering to each other. One

You ask me about regret? Let me tell you a few things about regret, my darling. There is no end to it. You cannot find the beginning of the chain that brought us from there to here. Should you regret the whole chain, and the air in between, or each link separately, as if you could uncouple them? Do you regret the beginning which ended so badly, or just the end itself? I've given more thought to this question than you can begin to imagine.