Quotes About Imagination

Ce sont les lecteurs qui rendent les personnages éternels.

Aucune image ne peut rivaliser avec les richesses d'un texte!

Ce que des hommes sont capables d'imaginer, d'autres sauront le réaliser.

Un écrivain, même habile, n'empêche pas un bon lecteur de lire entre les lignes.

For me, I am still very happy to be able to do stage design as it's an opportunity to express the extreme.

A pleasant illusion is better than a harsh reality.

Panic is a sudden desertion of us, and a going over to the enemy of our imagination.

just because something had never been done before did not mean it could not be done.

blindfolded." "Tell me you're kidding," he said. But then came the screech of brakes on his left and the matching shriek of Yeager's heart. "Shit, Zoe! Open your eyes." He heard the grin in her voice. "Don't worry so much. That was just Mr. Curtis in his '72 El Dorado. He drives with cataracts, I drive with my eyes closed. I think that makes us about even." Yeager's self-pity evaporated as he imagined thousands of

herself she'd be picturing her grandparents making love or worse… She'd be picturing Bing. His mouth on her breasts and his hands

For me the visual is just as important as the music.

I love theatrics and have a huge imagination: Why would I want to sit onstage and sing a bunch of ballads back-to-back?

This girl may never go anywhere. She should at least know that adventure is in her bones." When

the places we go in our minds to find comfort have little to do with where our bodies go.

As I watch her pine casket descend...I try to envision the reunion of a frail eighty year old woman with her decades younger husband and their three sons and am left with the lingering feeling that the places we go in our minds to find comfort have little to do with where our bodies go

People think the painting is a portrait, but it isn't. Not really. He wasn't even in the field; he conjured it from a room in the house, an entirely different angle. He removed rocks and trees and outbuildings. The scale of the barn is wrong. And I am not that frail young thing, but a middle-aged spinster. It's not my body, really, and maybe not even my head. He

From the recesses of my brain a word floats up: synecdoche. A part that stands in for the whole. Christina's World.

The reading part of her feels private, between her and the characters in a book.

I can't imagine why you didn't memorize this route on the

Wordsworth and Keats and Shelley. Our teacher made us memorize the words to "Ode on a Grecian Urn," and alone in the kitchen now I close my eyes and whisper Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness, Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time . . . but that's all I can remember.

It's a longing for things to come, possibilities unfolding before me, the charged expectation of change.

We don't talk about the danger -- but what I imagine is a cartoon version, bullets flying and each boy a super hero, running, invincible, through a spray of gunfire.

I do care about real life. It's just not as interesting as what's in my books.

You can always fix crap. You can't fix a blank page.