Quotes About Imagination

she tried instead to summon up the sixteen-o'clock dream. Something flying. Dashing, darting, weaving between the concrete behemoths of the arcologies and co-habs … she closed her eyes, tried to persuade her imagination into creating a flying something that might complete her fragment of a dream. And the window wall of her thirty-third-level apartment exploded.

he marveled at that word that had come to his lips out of nothing. "Water, forefinger." The words were coming fast now, tumbling, streaming out of that noplace where the names of all things waited to be used. "I am cold, I can speak, and I am tracing this water down this window with my forefinger.

only one man was left in Neu Ulmsbad Square to watch the black and silver pantycars come tunneling out of the clouds. "Is this part of it?" asked the man called Kilimanjaro West.

If you want to write, you must write experience. What it is to be that thing. There is everything in a moment.

imagine the chimneys billowing smoke. Concentrate on those chimneys, can you see them? STUDENT: I can see them.

Imagine the beams of the Panversal Radiance striking the earth as you've been taught in Contemplation and Presence Class.

On each twinkling scrap of paper Courtney Hall had drawn what she had glimpsed in that instant of the things that lay beyond the wall, the things the Compassionate Society had pushed away and abandoned and forgotten, the old things, the things of wonder and terror and joy and pain.

And what was it pen and fingers had drawn? What else. Wee Wendy Waif. As she could be. As she should be. As she would be. Now. Courtney Hall's smile was as bitter as her chocolate.

Ian McDonald

A story was a form of telepathy. By means of inking symbols onto a page, she was able to send thoughts and feelings from her mind to her reader's. It was a magical process, so commonplace that no one stopped to wonder at it.

Politics is the enemy of the imagination.

True intelligence requires fabulous imagination.

A story was a form of telepathy. By means of inking symbols onto a page, she was able to send thoughts and feelings from her mind to her reader's. It was a magical process, so commonplace that no one stopped to wonder at it.

Wasn't writing a kind of soaring, an achievable form of flight, of fancy, of the imagination?

How can a novelist achieve atonement when, with her absolute power of deciding outcomes, she is also God? There is no one, no entity or higher form that she can appeal to, or be reconciled with, or that can forgive her. There is nothing outside her. In her imagination she has set the limits and the terms. No atonement for God, or novelists, even if they are atheists. It was always an impossible task, and that was precisely the point. The attempt was all.

WOLF BROTHER is the kind of story you dream of reading and all to rarely find.

Every novel has at least three stories. Of course, there's story in its pages. But then there's the story of its writing. And there's also the story of its reaching, or not reaching, the bigger world of its readers.

From this height the sleeping city seems like a child's construction, a model which has refused to be constrained by imagination. The volcanic plug might be black Plasticine, the castle balanced solidly atop it a skewed rendition of crenellated building bricks. The orange street lamps are crumpled toffee-wrappers glued to lollipop sticks.

latest notebook – he filled dozens of

You've got to have a dream... if you don't have any big dreams, nothing happens.

Something that doesn't actually exist can still be useful.

Human beings, on the other hand, are symbolic creatures. Inside their heads they break down the outside world into a mass of mental symbols, then recombine those symbols to recreate that world. What they subsequently react to is often the mental construct, rather than the primary experiences themselves.

I never travel without my sketch book.

Traveling – it leaves you speechless, then turns you into a storyteller