Quotes About Imagination

The shop for fuller figures could be seen through broad, green leaves, its windows full, not of dresses, but fat zeros, pot-bellied legless sixes and bosomy eights, and threes like pregnant, primitive goddesses. In the teashop the chairs were being stood on top of the tables and made a forest of their own, sprouting upwards in fountains of coloured leaves.

Reading is very creative - it's not just a passive thing. I write a story; it goes out into the world; somebody reads it and, by reading it, completes it.

Don't grow up, Urchin, whatever you do. Definitely a bad idea.

Oh, and Fionn's down there trying to teach her frog to talk. Away you go, Corr.

If we make one criterion for defining the artist the impulse to make something new, or to do something in a new way - a kind of divine discontent with all that has gone before, however good - then we can find such artists at every level of human culture, even when performing acts of great simplicity.

I am not just what I remember. I am also what I dream.

Eventually you will get into the habit of enjoying line as a language all of its own.

There was so much pure fun in the world that it didn't pay to grow up too soon.

When I was about eight, I decided that the most wonderful thing, next to a human being, was a book.

nothing on Krynn is more dangerous than a bored kender.

ever since she had read the girl's novel, a piece of artistry that struck her as wish-fulfilment at its most blatant...

I read somewhere that all this - the people, the animals, the mountains, the rivers - is just God dreaming. I wish he'd wake the fuck up.

Quietness is an essential part of all awareness. In quiet times and sleepy times, a child can dwell in thoughts of his own, and in songs and stories of his own.

In the great green room, there was a telephone And a red balloon And a picture of a cat jumping over the moon...

Some people are born with words flowing in their veins.

Books are enchanted. Books help me travel. Books help me breathe.

I don't understand the whole thrilling verse, but I love the way poetry turns ordinary words into winged things that rise up and soar!

I think of my feather pen as something magical that still belongs to a wing. All I need is paper, ink, and the courage to let wild words soar.

Opinions. Ideas. Possibilities. So many! How can I choose? Between bursts of lightning-swift energy, I enjoy peaceful moments when the whole world seems to be a flowing river of verse and all I have to do is learn how to swim.

Books are door-shaped portals carrying me across oceans and centuries, helping me feel less alone.

Is there any way that two people from faraway places can ever really understand each other's daydrems?

I would have run away Into the forest To live in a nest Made of dreams And green leaves

Without even trying to be a teacher, Fredrika is teaching us, Showing us how to see things in new ways Instead of always thinking The same old thoughts That have been passed along by strangers Day after day, year after year Without any spirit of amazement Or wonder,

I feel at home, choosing to live inside my own imagination, savage and natural, yet I also long to be honest about my desire to love and be loved. Am I an unearthly creature, part vampire, part werewolf? Or perhaps... poetry is my beastly mind's only curse.