Quotes About Imagination

Women create an idealized, hopeful vision for the future to inspire other women. Fiction and fantasy are the crucial first steps to changing the world.

I was raised on comic books, and I love science fiction.

Oti?i ?u jednom. Kuda? Ma kuda. Kada? Nikada. ?im ?avo preciznosti došapne vrlo odre?ena pitanja, maštanje nestaje. Ostaje tuga. Ostaje život oko nas.

?uvala me, i pored svega, onakvog kakav sam bio u njenim snovima. ?arobnja?ki me sastavljala od razbijenih komada, možda i ne prime?uju?i pukotine

Gdje su zlatne ptice ljudskih snova, preko kojih se to bezbrojnih mora i vrletnih planina do njih dolazi? Da li nam se ta duboka ?ežnja djetinje nerazumnosti posigurno javlja samo kao tužni znak izvezen na mahramama i na safijanskim koricama nepotrebnih knjiga?

Where's the sun?" he asked me once. "Behind the clouds." "Is it always there? Even when it's cloudy?" "Always." "Could we see it if we climbed to the top of that poplar?" "No." "And if we were on a minaret?" "No. The clouds are above the minaret." "And if a hole was made in the clouds?" Indeed, why don't people make holes in clouds for boys who love the sun?

Bila je druk?ija od njegove magli?aste vizije iz prvog susreta, stvarnija, bliža, odredjenija, ali time nije gubila ništa. Ona iz snova bila je mašta, magla njegovih zaludnih ?asova, i imala je nestalan oblik njegovih želja, a ova se nije mijenjala ni rasplinjavala. Stajala je pred njim uzdržana i gospodstvena, otkrivaju?i svakim svojim pokretom poneku osobinu koja je djelovala kao iznenadjenje

A uvijek izgleda lijepo ono sto se nije ostvarilo.

i sve pomalo li?i na onu nekadašnju no?, izdvojenu iz drugih, obilježenu tajnom. Sve je bilo, a opet li?i na san, ni na ?emu ne mogu da se zaustavim jer ništa ne znam, a držim se sje?anja, uporno. Nijednog putokaza nemam za traženje i zadovoljavam se onim što je bilo, od toga je u meni ostao pun osje?aj, neistrošen i nezadovoljen, i ostao je nekakav sanjarski miris, druga dimenzija, mogu?nost izvan onoga što se obi?no dešava.

In order to enter that zone we must finally let go of the embodied distances that place grants. But what does this do to what we commonly think of as the past? I think of cyberspace, which is no place at all, as akin to the dark imaginary out of which poems come, their rhythms, their discrete music punctuating the inner life.

Write the kind of story you would like to read. People will give you all sorts of advice about writing, but if you are not writing something you like, no one else will like it either.

Someday you're really going to have to describe to me in more detail what life is like on the planet you live on. Because it sounds really great, and I'd like to visit there one day.

Lilly says I have an overactive imagination and a pathological need to invent drama in my life.

What's a mediator you ask? Oh, a person who acts as a liason between the living and the dead. Hey, wait a minute...what're you doing with that strait jacket?-Suze Simon's imagination

Many people hear voices when no-one is there. Some of them are called mad and are shut up on rooms where they stare at the walls all day. Others are called writers and they do pretty much the same thing.

His smile was deep and dark, like a thousand books begging to be read, like the doorway to Narnia.

So much of translating, Gil once told me, takes place in an imaginary space where the writer and the translator come together. It is not necessary to sympathize with the writer, to agree with what he's written. But it is necessary to walk alongside and stay in step. It's harder, he says, when the other person has a bad limp or stops and starts all the time or moves erratically. It is hardest of all when the story comes from a place the translator himself can't go.

she sometimes makes me think of a planet rocketing along in a parallel universe

When you read a book, the neurons in your brain fire overtime, deciding what the characters are wearing, how they're standing, and what it feels like the first time they kiss. No one shows you. The words make suggestions. Your brain paints the pictures.

Gil has put his book down and is gazing at something inside his head.

I skim through time and space at the speed of thought. The unknown is my prey, I bring it to earth in a single exquisite bound.

Trying to think inside Finn's head was like committing what our English master called Pathetic Fallacy, the attribution of human emotions to boulders or trees.

I have often looked back at that moment and imagined history veering fractionally in one direction or another, imagined if I'd been a different person, or if he had, whether what followed would have been a different story altogether and the history of the world might have changed ever so slightly around us.

Miro una imagen y veo las cosas que no están a la vista en ese momento. No es que sea una especie de mística, simplemente veo una constelación de hechos minúsculos que son demasiado pequeños para que la gente se fije en ellos. No detecto cada elemento en concreto de la constelación, pero la impresión general está clara. El Oso. El Cazador. El Cisne.