Quotes About Imagination

In the dark attics of our minds, all times mingle.

All my life I've wanted to be the kid who gets to cross over into the magical kingdom.

The moon likes secrets ... and secret things. She lets mysteries bleed into her shadows and leaves us to ask whether they originated from otherworlds, or from our own imaginations.

When you're touched by magic, nothing's ever quite the same again. What really makes me sad is all those people who never have the chance to know that touch. They're too busy, or they just don't hold with make-believe, so they shut the door without really knowing it was there to be opened in the first place.

What I want to do is travel deep and deeper into the dreamlands, to find that place that I know is waiting for me here. My home.

I always feel that there is a curtain, you know, that if I could just peek behind the curtain I'd see how the world really works. And since I haven't had it I have to write about it instead.

I find the characters in my head and the more I write about them, the better I get to know them.

As the new work fills my notebooks, I've come to realize that the characters in my stories were so real because I really did want to get close to people, I really did want to know them. It was just easier to do it on paper, one step removed.

I don't actually talk about my books much, because I find if I talk about them I don't want to write them anymore. I write to find out what happens. You know how you read a book? That's what I'm doing except I'm just doing it a lot slower because it takes a lot longer to do.

There are few joys to compare with the telling of a well-told tale.

In Sarah's eyes I see trapped tears that have spun themselves so tightly that they can't fall onto her cheeks, but will fall instead back into the empty hollow place in her. I imagine a deep, dark well inside her that's filled with all the tears she never cries, and how cold and damp she must feel under her pinafore and inside her kind, pale body.

There were many painters there, painters of every sort and of every degree of eminence—Max Ernst, for instance, one of the founders of surrealism

I had a dream. I had an awesome dream.

In my dreams I've kissed your lips a thousand times.

My mind is huge with little stories that I never told you.

So when I said I'd miss him, I meant I would miss what we had not experienced, and I don't know what that's called: nostalgia for what didn't happen.

The gap between most people's capacity to conjure beauty from scratch and to merely recognize it when they see it is the width of the Atlantic Ocean.

But the one thing he could not have imagined is that we were withholding nothing. That there was nothing on the other side of our silly rules; nothing.

There's no more doomed a struggle than a battle with the imaginary.

I have reflected on the fact that for most of us, there is a hard, impassable barrier between the most imaginatively detailed depravity and its real-life execution.

It's just, people throwing around fashionable lingo think they're so hip and imaginative. But you can't be hip and imaginative. You can be unhip and imaginative, or hip and conformist.

So sturdy and solid, so wide, so thick, none of that delicate wristy business of my imaginings. Built like an oak tree, against which I could pitch my pillow and read; mornings, I could curl into the crook of your branches.

Of course for professional traders on the stock exchange, money had always been imaginary - just as notional, just as easy come and easy go, as the points in a video game. Wage earners like Willing's mother thought money was real. Because the work was real, and the time was real, it seemed inconceivable that what the work and the time had converted into would be gossamer.

The future is just the ultimate monster in the closet, the great unknown