Quotes About Imagination

she would have walked all the way up to East Sixty-Third Street, and probably 163rd Street, if it meant pouring even more into this memory that wasn't a memory.

All novels are sequels; influence is bliss.

I could say she looks like da Vinci's "Lady with Ermine" if there had ever been such a thing.

In a daydream sort of way, I think it would be pretty cool to direct a movie. But I have been on movie and TV sets and know it is hard work. I like directing it in my mind. It is easier.

Truly divine faculties of intellect and imagination can make gods of us all

He was struck by the sensation she'd made it happen in some way, that his life was simply a story the old woman was making up in her head.

One always has a better book in one's mind than one can manage to get onto paper.

There is just this for consolation: an hour here or there, when our lives seem, against all odds and expectations, to burst open and give us everything we've ever imagined , though everyone but children (and perhaps even they) knows these hours will inevitably be followed by others, far darker and more difficult. Still, we cherish the city, the morning, we hope, more than anything, for more. Heaven only knows why we love it so.

I don't have any regrets, really, except that one. I wanted to write about you, about us, really. Do you know what I mean? I wanted to write about everything, the life we're having and the lives we might have had. I wanted to write about all the ways we might have died.

we become the stories we tell ourselves

This is what you do. You make a future for yourself out of the raw material at hand.

I love our shared island, our shared Ireland and its core decency. I love it for its imagination and its celebration of the endless possibilities for our people.

Good-bye, O fairest world, good-bye", I soliloquized. "O blue gem in the heavens, where mankind dwells in love, and no man's hand is lifted against another, and the gifted realize their every dream, and all things sing, and the light grows gold when the bells ring." "Good poetry needn't rhyme", said Xue. "Besides, you shouldn't tell lies." "Lies? No, I was just dreaming.

Is this, then, the source of the primal wound—the sense of fatherlessness? The wound makes one vulnerable to a lie: you have no father, there is no fatherhood, the universe is abandoned. The wound begets loneliness. Loneliness seeks relief in the theater of the imagination. The imagination ferments a romance. Then romance, impelled by the generative powers of the body, gradually degenerates into erotic fantasy.

The dragon. Just when you think he's getting smaller and smaller, no bigger than a lapdog, he opens his little mouth and swallows the whole world in one gulp.

His eyes had changed color. They were no longer brown. Instead, they looked huge and golden. The eyes reminded him of a nightmare he'd had many times. In the dream, he turned into a giant black dragon. The nightmare dragon had burning yellow eyes.

The truth is no excuse for a boring story".

Fear is a memory of better times. Fear is a dream.

For that fine madness still he did retainWhich rightly should possess a poet's brain.

Had in him those brave translunary thingsThat the first poets had.

Creativity thinks up new things. Innovation does new things.

If you have never wept bitter tears because a wonderful story has come to an end and you must take your leave of the characters with whom you have shared so many adventures, whom you have loved and admired, for whom you have hoped and feared, and without whose company life seems empty and meaningless. If such things have not been part of your own experience, you probably won't understand what Bastian did next.

Once someone dreams a dream, it can't just drop out of existence. But if the dreamer can't remember it, what becomes of it? It lives on in Fantastica, deep under earth. There are forgotten dreams stored in many layers. The deeper one digs, the closer they are. All Fantastica rests on a foundation of forgotten dreams.

If you stop to think about it, you'll have to admit that all the stories in the world consist essentially of twenty-six letters. The letters are always the same, only the arrangement varies. From letters words are formed, from words sentences, from sentences chapters, and from chapters stories.