Quotes About Imagination

Sometimes I dream-- I'll put that on your gravestone.

Another fantasy film rolled suddenly into his head, without his consent:

I have never yielded to reality.

I want to write about people I love, and put them into a fictional world spun out of my own mind, not the world we actually have, because the world we actually have does not meet my standards, Dick wrote of these stories. In my writing I even question the universe; I wonder out loud if it is real, and I wonder out loud if all of us are real.

Isn't a beautiful dream better than a cruel reality?

It is my job to create universes, as the basis of one novel after another. And I have to build them in such a way that they do not fall apart two days later. Or at least that's what my editors hope. However, I will reveal a secret to you: I like to build universes which do fall apart. I like to see them unglued, and I like to see how how the characters in the novel cope with this problem. I have a scret love of chaos. There should be more of it.

It's impossible that James Joyce could have mentioned talk-tapes in his writing, Asher thought. Someday I'm going to get my article published; I'm going to prove that Finnegan's Wake is an information pool based on computer memory systems that didn't exist until a century after James Joyce's era; that Joyce was plugged into a cosmic consciousness from which he derived the inspiration for his entire corpus of work. I'll be famous forever.

So you want to have gone to Mars. Very good.

It is as if one hemisphere of your brain is perceiving the world as reflected in a mirror. Through a mirror. See? So left becomes right, and all that that implies. And we don't know yet what that does imply, to see the world reversed like that. Topologically speaking, a left-hand glove is a right-hand glove pulled through infinity.

Perhaps, deformed as it was, Earth remained familiar, to be clung to. Or possibly the non-emigrant imagined that the tent of dust would deplete itself finally.

Amazing, the power of fiction, even cheap popular fiction, to evoke.

Because of an imaginary voice, Nicholas had become a whole person; rather than the partial person he had been in Berkeley. If he had remained in Berkeley he would have lived and died a partial person, never knowing completeness.

They know a million tricks, those novelists.

Amazing, the power of fiction, even cheap popular fiction, to evoke. No wonder it's banned within Reich territory;

Science fiction writers, I am sorry to say, really do not know anything.

I am by profession, a science fiction writer. I deal in fantasies. My life is a fantasy. Nonetheless, Gloria Knudson lies in a box in Modesto, California.

Too bad Mahler never saw a Morley wah-wah pedal, he thought, or he would have scored it into one of his longer works.

I seem to be living in my own novels more and more. I can't figure out why. Am I losing touch with reality? Or is reality actually sliding toward a Phil Dickian type of atmosphere? And if the latter, then for god's sake why? Am I responsible? How could I be responsible? Isn't that solipsism? It's too much for me.

Van Vogt's The World of Null-A—there was something about that which absolutely fascinated me.

I will go, he said to himself. Before I die I'll see Mars.

In other words, an entire new world is pointed to, by this. The name for it is neither art, for it has no form, nor religion. What is it? I have pondered this pin unceasingly, yet cannot fathom it. We evidently lack the work for an object like this. So you are right, Robert. It is authentically a new thing on the face of the world

In cleaning up the ills of the world, Edith Pritchet eradicated, not merely objects, but whole classes of objects. Probably, at some remote time and place, she had been annoyed by a honking car. Now, in her pleasant fantasy version of the world, such things didn't exist. They simply weren't . Her list of annoyances was undoubtedly considerable. And there was no way to tell what was included.

What will they accept, then?" Norm said, "Perky Pat herself." He was silent, then. "Oh good Lord," she said, appalled. "But if we win," Norm pointed out, "we win Connie Companion.

engineer finishes