Quotes About Imagination

Rhyme couldn't remember what he looked like. From his voice he sounded fit and athletic, but then Rhyme supposed he himself might seem like an Olympian to someone who couldn't see his destroyed body.

She jotted this down in her ubiquitous notebook.

Everything in the past is memory, everything in the future is imagination. . .

studio and the junkyards

On entering the little green-walled

George Bernard Shaw which Annabel quoted so often: "Some men see things as they are and say, why; I dream things that never were and say, why not.

Twenty-one Short Stories by Graham Greene.

Words, words, word. Once, I had the gift. I could make love out of words as a potter makes cups of clay. Love that overthrows empire. Love that binds two hearts together, come hellfire & brimstone. For sixpence a line, I could cause a riot in a nunnery. But now -- I have lost my gift. It's as if my quill is broken, as if the organ of my imagination has dried up, as if the proud -illegible word- of my genius has collapsed.

She wanted a book to take her places she couldn't get to herself.

The only way we know it's true is that we both dreamed it. That's what reality is. It's a dream everyone has together.

Whereas I, even now, persist in believing that these black marks on white paper bear the greatest significance, that if I keep writing I might be able to catch the rainbow of consciousness in a jar.

To start with, look at all the books.

Bubble-gum angels swooped from top margins, or scraped their wings between teeming paragraphs. Maidens with golden hair dripped sea-blue tears into the books spine. Grape-colored whales spouted blood around a newspaper item (pasted in) listing arrivals to the endangered species list. Six hatchlings cried from shattered shells near an entry made on Easter. Cecilia had filled the pages with a profusion of colors and curlicues, Candyland ladders and striped shamrocks.

She was a large, disordered woman, like a child's drawing that didn't stay within the lines.

That's how people live, by telling stories. What's the first thing a kid says when he learns how to talk? "Tell me a story." That's how we understand who we are, where we come from. Stories are everything.

Bubble-gum angels swooped from top margins, or scraped their wings between teeming paragraphs. Maidens with golden hair dripped sea-blue tears into the book's spine.

She wanted a book to take her places she couldn't get to herself. She thought a writer should work harder writing a book than she did reading it.

Desde temprana edad eran conscientes del escaso valor que el mundo daba a los libros, de manera que no perdían el tiempo con ellos. Mientras que yo, incluso ahora, persisto en creer que esos signos negros trazados en papel blanco son de la mayor importancia, y que si continúo escribiendo lograré atrapar el arco iris de la conciencia y guardarlo en un tarro.

The magisterial presence of all those potentially readable words stopped her in her tracks.

Hearing a beautiful music in her head, she hadn't listened to anything anyone else was saying.

Avea cate un citat pentru fiecare lucru care i se intampla si in felul acesta evada din viata reala.

Aquí nos encontramos básicamente con una soñadora, una persona sin contacto con la realidad. Cuando saltó, probablemente se figuraba que volaría

Csak onnan tudhatjuk, hogy igaz, hogy mindketten ugyanazt álmodtuk. EttÅ'l lesz valóság. A valóság is álom, csak mindenki egyszerre álmodja.

Instead of eating his lunch, he told you what Oblonsky and Levin had for lunch in Anna Karenina. Or, describing a sunset from Daniel Deronda, he failed to notice the one that was presently falling over Michigan.