Quotes About Imagination

Dreams are answers to questions we haven't yet figured out how to ask.

I wanted to hide away and write. I wanted to meet characters who would climb up my pen. I wanted to create a completely new world, inventing everyone and everything.

I wanted to meet characters who would climb up my pen. I wanted to create a completely new world, inventing everyone and everything.

I'll love you, dear, I'll love you Till China and Africa meet, And the river jumps over the mountain And the salmon sing in the street. 'AS I WALKED OUT ONE EVENING', W. H. AUDEN

If you spend enough time reading someone else's thoughts, after a while their thoughts begin to infect you. Your grasp on yourself becomes tenuous. Or you begin to see that you never were the essential you in the first place, Iona thinks to herself as she takes the bus back to Angel. To be a person is to imagine being someone, and the someone you imagine most of the time is what people call 'you'.

Dreams are more real than reality itself, they're closer to the self.

The enterprise of describing something in language that has never been described before is a very difficult thing to do. When you decide to do away with old cliches or old phraseologies, and to come up with a new way of saying something, it's extremely difficult.

When he closed his eyes his mind began to roam, and only with his eyes closed did he not feel others watching and observing him. With his eyes closed, there was freedom and he could wander.

Por mais revolucionárias que sejam, disse, as pessoas não podem viver sem livros. Sem livros não compreenderíamos o mundo; sem livros não poderíamos desenvolver; sem livros, a natureza não pode servir a humanidade.

Quick now, give up this idle pondering! And let's be off into the great wide world! I tell you: the fool who speculates on things is like some animal on a dry heath, led by an evil fiend in endless circles, while fine green pastures lie on every side.

No deberíamos haber crecido. Si hubiéramos sabido que ser un adulto es tan aburrido, habríamos jugado mucho más de pequeñas.

Ribbon, bell, emerald, stamp. The words that came from my mother's mouth thrilled me, like the names of little girls from distant countries or new species of plants. As I listened to her talk, it made me happy to imagine a time when all these things had a place here on the island.

The Professor never really seemed to care whether we figured out the right answer to a problem. He preferred our wild, desperate guesses to silence, and he was even more delighted when those guesses led to new problems that took us beyond the original one.

you read a novel to the end, then it's over. I would never want to do something as wasteful as that. I'd much rather keep it here with me, safe and sound, forever.

Few people here have any need of novels

When I closed my eyes, the world was filled with sound.

You can't write with your head. I want you to write with your hand," he said. It was rare for him to make a pronouncement like this, so I found myself simply nodding in silence. Then I stretched my hand toward him, fingers extended. "That's right. That's where the story should come from," he said, but he looked away, as though he had seen into the most vulnerable part of my body.

I can hear and smell and feel everything happening in the hotel. I can't say I have much experience or even any real desires of my own, but just by shutting myself up behind the desk, I can imagine every scene being played out by the people spending the night at the Iris. Then I erase them one by one and find a quiet place to lie down and sleep

Having written this phrase, I set down my pencil. My new novel wasn't going very well. I seemed to be writing in circles, going backward, or running into dead ends, with no idea what should come next. Still, I often encountered this sort of writer's block, and I no longer took much notice of it.

You can't write with your head. I want you to write with your hand

It became more difficult to breathe. I looked around. My body was now included among the objects arranged on the floor. I lay there between the music box and the harmonica, my two legs protruding at odd angles, my hands crossed on my chest, my eyes lowered. In the same way he had wound the spring on the music box or blown into the harmonica, I imagined R would now caress my body in order to call forth memories.

Ibland sätter jag händerna mot väggen och försöker föreställa mig hur det är utanför. Jag tänker att det kanske kan gå att uppfatta någonting genom händernas beröring med väggen. Sådant som vindriktning, kyla, fukt, platsen du är på, vattnets porlande floden. Men det går aldrig. Väggen är bara en vägg. Det finns ingenting bakom den, den är inte sammankopplad med någonting.

Meine Weltkugel war bestimmt nicht rund gewesen, sondern wie ein Abendhimmel, in dem die fremden Orte wie Feuerwerk blitzten.

Writing an autobiography means guessing or making up everything you've forgotten. I thought I'd already sufficiently described the character Ivan. In reality, I could no longer even remember him. Or rather: I was starting to remember him all too clearly, which could only mean this Ivan was now nothing more than my creation.