Quotes About Imagination

Here at last was the imagined but never fully realized place leaping into real life.

What's in a book, is not what an author thought he put into it, it's what the reader get out of it.

I've always been puzzled, and am still at this moment in a state of confusion, between the imaginative world and the real world. It is perfectly true to say that I have at some times in my life found that the imaginative world had pushed the real world right out of the way, and was literally more real.

Heaven lies around us in our infancy.

The thing is – fear can't hurt you any more than a dream.

He says the beast comes out of the sea. The last laugh died away. Ralph turned involuntarily, a black, humped figure against the lagoon. The assembly looked with him, considered the vast stretches of water, the high sea of beyond, unknown indigo of infinite possibility, heard silently the sough and whisper from the reef

hayal ürünü yarat?klardan deÄŸil, ancak insanlardan korkulmas? gerektiÄŸini söyler.

The thing is fear can't hurt you any more than a dream

Let me think in pictures again. If I imagine heaven metaphorically dazzled into colours, the pure white light spread out in a cascade richer than a peacock's tail then I see that one of the colours lay over me. I was innocent of guilt, unconscious of innocence; happy, therefore, and unconscious of happiness. Perhaps the full sheaf of colours is never to be experienced by the human being since if they experience these colours they must lie in the past or on someone else.

What's in a book is not what the author put into it, it's what the reader gets out of it.

Our mistake is to confuse our limitations with the bounds of possibility . . .

When was the last time you read a book? The truth now. And picture books don't count-I mean something with print in it.

Let me get this thing straight, Inigo--we had SCRAPS for dinner? I'M in YOUR fantasy and the best you can come up with is SCRAPS? She turned toward the door then. You have no chance of winning my heart.

It's one of my biggest memories of my father reading. I had pneumonia, remember, but I was a little better now, and madly caught up in the book, and one thing you know when you're ten is that, no matter what, there's gonna be a happy ending. They can sweat all they want to scare you, the authors, but back of it all you know, you just have no doubt, that in the long run justice is going to win out.

For the first time in my life, I became actively interested in a book. Me the sports fanatic, me the game freak, me the only ten-year-old in Illinois with a hate on for the alphabet wanted to know what happened next.

Buttercup could picture Westley rounding the final corner. There were four guards outside waiting. At ten seconds per guard, she began figuring, but then stopped, because numbers had always been her enemy. She looked down at her hands. Oh, I hope he still thinks I'm pretty, she thought; those nightmares took a lot out of me.

Mawidge is a dweam wiffin a dweam.

When I left you, he whispered, you were already more beautiful than anything I dared to dream. In our years apart, my imaginings did their best to improve on your perfection. At night, your face was forever behind my eyes. And now I see that that vision who kept me company in my loneliness was a hag compared to the beauty now before me.

Truth is terrific, reality is even better, but believability is best of all. Because without it, truth and reality go right out the window….

He had felt no pain, not once, none. He had closed his eyes and taken his brain away. That was the secret. If you could take your brain away from the present and sent it to where it could contemplate skin like wintry cream; well, let them enjoy themselves.

I got vision; the rest of the world is wearing bifocals.

Later, years later even, sometimes I might say, How about the duel on the cliff with Inigo and the man in black? and my father would gruff and grumble and get the book and lick his thumb, turning pages till the mighty battle began.

I read, and, in reading, lifted the Curtains of the Impossible that blind the mind, and looked out into the unknown.

And then, suddenly, an extraordinary question rose in my mind, whether this stupendous globe of green fire might not be the vast Central Sun—the great sun, round which our universe and countless others revolve. I felt confused. I thought of the probable end of the dead sun, and another suggestion came, dumbly—Do the dead stars make the Green Sun their grave? The idea appealed to me with no sense of grotesqueness; but rather as something both possible and probable.