Quotes About Imagination

His head was always in the clouds. 'I'm writing a novel,' he told her. As if that was something to crow about. As if there weren't enough novels in the world already.

Was there a poet who hadn't written about skylarks?

There was just a beautiful, unearthly silence. He thought of the wood and the bluebells, the owl and the fox, a Hornby train trundling around his bedroom floor, the smell of a cake baking in the oven. The skylark ascending on his thread of song. F-Fox

who is to say which of these is real and which a fiction? In the end, it is my belief, words are the only things that can construct a world that makes sense.

You can try things on if you want," Izzie said carelessly. "Although you're rather small compared to me. Jolie et petite." Ursula declined, fearing enchantment. They were the kind of clothes that might turn you into someone else.

Don't let your imagination run away with you..." But why would you not when the reality was so awful?

Doll-less, invisible friend-less, finally more comfortable in fear than in gladness, Astrid began to live in her head. Or rather inside a small tunnel - a hole - in her head, through which she watched everything gaily depart. She nodded this head and pretended to listen. 'Bye-bye,' she would hear from within.

Not comforting to see pain and death but just to see what she could not let herself imagine and therefore ruled her.

I know many writers who say that the memory of reading fairy tales is their first, and sometimes only, memory of rapture. I hope that this unpredictable, intense collection inspires you to read fairy tales-and then to read them again.

All good fairy tales have meaning to many levels, Bruno Bettleheim observes in The Uses of Enchantment. Only the child can know which meanings are significance to him at the moment.

So the Giant. Maybe Jack had no particular giant in mind; maybe it was just a giant-sized hole in his dreams and desires that the big-G Giant later came forward to fill.

Holy Abercrombie catalog , Megan thought.

Without stories, how do we know who we are? How can we imagine who we can be?

She liked then to wander alone into strange and unfamiliar places. She discovered many a sunny, sleepy corner, fashioned to dream in.

She waited for the material pictures which she thought would gather and blaze before her imagination. She waited in vain. She saw no pictures of solitude, of hope, of longing, or of despair. But the very passions themselves were aroused within her soul, swaying it, lashing it, as the waves daily beat upon her splendid body. She trembled, she was choking, and the tears blinded her.

A vision of the future like some dim, gaunt monster sometimes appalled her, but luckily to-morrow never comes. Mrs.

She was a grown young woman when she was overtaken by what she supposed to be the climax of her fate. It was when the face and figure of a great tragedian began to haunt her imagination and stir her senses. The persistence of the infatuation lent it an aspect of genuineness. The hopelessness of it colored it with the lofty tones of a great passion.

Romances serve but to feed the imagination of the young; they add nothing to the sum of truth.

Since I was a girl I always felt as if I would like to write stories. I never had that ambition or shine to make a name; first place because I knew what time and labor it meant to acquire a literary style. Second place, because whenever I wanted to write a story I never could think of a plot.

Her fancy was running riot along those days ahead of her. Spring days, and summer days, and all sorts of days that would be her own. She breathed a quick prayer that life might be long. It was only yesterday she had thought with a shudder that life might be long.

But sometimes, if I start to picture what's downstairs in the kitchen cupboards and fridge and those bowls on the counter, and try to piece everything together in a series of interesting meals and fill in any gaps with a mental grocery list, it turns into a fun, riveting game so engaging I forget what a horrible person I am and fixate instead on the far more relevant question of what I plan to cook and eat in the near future.

Don't we all live in our heads? Where else could we possibly exist? Our brains are the universe.

The shapes arranged themselves into words, and the words spelled out a delicious and wonderful phrase: Once upon a time.

He] had the soul of a poet, and because of this, he liked very much to consider questions that had no answers.