Quotes About Imagination

One of the things I've started doing lately is tracking my dreams. I feel like there's a lot of information there and you can really bring those emotions to the situations that may feel mundane or familiar. That gives them new life and gives you a new relationship with it - if that makes any sort of sense.

I quickly imagined that I could reach my hand into my chest, yank out that awful feeling, place it on an invisibl ecloud of air right in front of me, then push it away. Push it away

It's kind of amazing, how nostalgic you can feel for memories that never actually happened.

We used to say he must've met you in the fiction section.

Create something new by thinking something new, with the faith that your thought will bring about positive change. Remember, all thought is a form of prayer.

I listened as the words became sentences and the sentences became pages and the pages became feelings and voices and places and people.

It's a good thing you and your pills weren't around a few hundred years ago or there never would have been a Vermeer or a Caravaggio. You'd have drugged "Girl with a Pearl Earring" and "The Taking of Christ" right the hell out of them.

A new word. Bright with possibilities. A flawless pearl to turn over and over in my hand, then put away for safekeeping.

Reading became my sanctuary," Belle continued. "I found so much in those books. I found histories that inspired me. Poems that delighted me. Novels that challenged me…" Belle paused, suddenly self-conscious. She looked down at her hands, and in a wistful voice, said, "What I really found, though, was myself.

On those nights, the words were for me alone. They came up unbidden from my heart. They spilled over my tongue and spilled out my mouth. And because of them, I, who was nothing and nobody, was a prince of Denmark, a maid of Verona, a queen of Egypt. I was a sour misanthrope, a beetling hypocrite, a conjurer's daughter, a mad and murderous king.

Writers are damned liars. Every single one of them.

He loves the sparkling fountains and their cascades and says the strangest things as he watches them. they look like stars breaking. Or, They look like Mama's diamonds. Or, They look like all the souls in heaven.

I could almost hear the characters inside, murmuring and jostling, impatient for me to open the cover and let them out.

Mirrors only show us what we are. Books show us what we can be.

Life can be so difficult, and stories help us escape those difficulties. It's all right to lose yourself in one

Come on you raver, you seer of visions, come on you painter, you piper, you prisoner, and shine...

Belle hesitated. "What is this place?" she asked. "A bit of magic, like all good books," the man replied. "An escape. A place where you can leave cares and worries behind." He smiled. "At least for a chapter or two.

It was more than a book, more than a story. It was like nothing she'd ever known. And everything she'd ever wanted.

History is fiction.

But eating was the last thing on my mind. And I didn't see how Miss Wilcox could eat, or teach, or sleep or ever find any reason to leave this room. Not with all these books in it, just begging to be read.

An escape can become escapism before we even know it. Books are wonderful things, but you can't live in someone else's story. You have to live your own story.

All her life, she'd loved books. She loved the look of them, the smell of them, the sweet weight of them in her arms. Most of all, she loved the feeling she got every time she picked one up-the feeling of holding an entire world in her hands.

I stood there in a trance, the bucket at my feet, listening as the words became sentences and the sentences became pages and the pages became feelings and voices and places and people.

One cannot find that which never existed!