Quotes About Imagination

Do you see the invisible spirals on the margins of the page? I thought I would run out of paper. It was the pens that ran out

Which is the better story, the story with animals or the story without animals?

Doesn't the telling of something always become a story?

A story is a wedding in which we listeners are the groom watching the bride coming up the aisle. It is together, in an act of imaginary consummation, that the story is born. This act wholly involves us, as any marriage would, and just as no marriage is exactly the same as another, so each of us interprets a story differently, feels for it differently.

Art is water, and just as humans are always close to water, for reasons of necessity (to drink, to wash, to flush away, to grow) as well as for reasons of pleasure (to play in, to swim in, to relax in front of, to sail upon, to suck on frozen, coloured and sweetened), so humans must always be close to art in all its incarnations, from the frivolous to the essential. Otherwise we dry up.

That is the greatness of literature, and its paradox, that in reading about fictional others we end up reading about ourselves. Sometimes this unwitting self-examination provokes smiles of recognition, while other times, . . . it provokes shudders of worry and denial. Either way, we are the wiser, we are existentially thicker.

You sometimes feel that reading books is the only way you can think, as if the reading occupied one part of your brain and this allowed the other part to go free and become more active. You need that time to read in order to think. That's all there is to it.

On peut tout te prendre; tes biens, tes plus belles années, l'ensemble de tes joies, et l'ensemble de tes mérites, jusqu'à ta dernière chemise. Il te restera toujours tes rêves pour réinventer le monde que l'on t'a confisqué...

Je ne crois en rien. Certainement pas à toutes ces imbécillités religieuses. Mais un peu aux anges. Aux constellations. À mon rôle, même infinitésimal, dans le livre des causes et des effets. Il n'est pas interdit de s'imaginer partie d'un tout.

Nothing could be more comfortable than writing about the ballet from books. A ballet he had never seen was an art in another world. It was an unrivaled armchair reverie, a lyric from some paradise. He called his work research, but it was actually free, uncontrolled fantasy. He preferred not to savor the ballet in the flesh; rather he savored the phantasms of his own dancing imagination, called up by Western books and pictures. It was like being in love with someone he had never seen.

What I believe to be memories are probably daydreams. Still, my own sentimentality yearns for them as if they were the truth, suspect or twisted though they may be. I have forgotten that they were stories I heard from another and feel an intimacy with them as if they were my own direct memories -from Oil

Seara, înainte s? adorm, închid ochii È™i num?r b?rbaÈ›ii pe care mi-ar pl?cea s?-i s?rut. Îi num?r folosind degetele. E distractiv. Când sunt mai puÈ›in de cele zece degete m? simt trist?.

Is it a boy or a girl? It's a girl. Really! Can't you tell by looking at it? Is it mine? It is not. Oh? Well, if it is, you needn't say so now. You can say when you feel like it. Years and years from now. It is not. It really is not. I haven't forgotten that I loved you, but you are not to imagine things.

He pampered himself with the somewhat whimsical pleasure of sneering at himself through his work, and it may well have been from such a pleasure that his sad little dream world sprang.

In the spray the girl stood naked. The facts were different, but in the course of time Eguchi's mind had made them so. As he grew old, the hills of Kyoto and the trunks of the red pines in gentle clusters could sometimes bring the girl back to Eguchi; but memories as vivid as tonight's were rare. Was it the youth of the sleeping girl that invited them?

You may think I'm small, but I have a universe inside my mind.

Art is my life and my life is art.

Art is a way of survival.

Imagine the clouds dripping Dig a hole in your garden to put them in

I thought art was a verb, rather than a noun.

A dream you dream alone may be a dream, but a dream two people dream together is a reality.

Do you understand what I have not said and what you have not heard in this room that does not exist?

Fantasy is reason's sweetheart.

Writers are engineers of human souls.