Quotes About Imagination

Did you really say it? Or did I imagine that you did? I think you'd better learn to control that imagination of yours, Anne, if you can't distinguish between what is real and what isn't, said Marilla crossly.

For it is sure to come; and if or not it's now not just as we have pictured it, it will likely be infinitely sweeter.

I wish my imagination was as good as yours. It would be if you'd only cultivate it

It had always seemed to Emily, ever since she could remember, that she was very, very near to a world of wonderful beauty.

Es la primera cosa que he visto que no podría ser mejorada por la imaginación.

Isn't it splendid to think of all the things there are to find out about? It just makes me glad to be alive. It's such an interesting world. It wouldn't be half so interesting, if we knew all about everything, would it? There'd be no scope for imagination then, would there?

Perhaps," said Owen dreamily, it is the prisoned infinite in us calling out to its kindred infinite as expressed in that visible perfection.

L.M. Montgomery

But I can't believe in fairies myself, protested Emily sorrowfully. I wish I could. But you are a fairy yourself

Es la primera vez que veo una cosa que no puedo mejorar con la imaginación. Y me ha hecho sentir algo especial aquí. —dijo, poniendo la mano sobre el pecho—. Como dolor y placer al mismo tiempo.

and Jerry and I—round and round the world. Listen— listen—can't you hear his wild music? The girls shivered. You know you're only pretending, protested Mary Vance, and I wish you wouldn't.

because when you ARE imagining you might as well imagine something worth while

It's delightful when your imaginations come true, isn't it?

I wonder what a soul Ã¢â'¬Â¦ a person's soul Ã¢â'¬Â¦ would look like, said Priscilla dreamily. Like that, I should think, answered Anne, pointing to a radiance of sifted sunlight streaming through a birch tree. Only with shape and features of course. I like to fancy souls as being made of light. And some are all shot through with rosy stains and quivers Ã¢â'¬Â¦ and some have a soft glitter like moonlight on the sea Ã¢â'¬Â¦ and some are pale and transparent like mist at dawn.

Even when I am alone, I have real good company - dreams and imaginations and pretendings.

I was just trying to write out some of my thoughts, as Professor Hamilton advised me, but I couldn't get them to please me. They seem so still and foolish directly they're written down on white paper and black ink. Fancies are like shadows... you can't cage them, they're such wayward, dancing things. But perhaps I'll learn the secret someday if I keep trying.

There are so many things in this room and all so splendid that there is no scope for imagination. That is one consolation when you are poor—there are so many more things you can imagine about.

It's better to write about things you feel than about things you know about.

To my mind's eye, my buried memories of Brandham Hall are like effects of chiaroscuro, patches of light and dark: it is only with effort that I see them in terms of colour. There are things I know, though I don't know how I know them, and things that I remember. Certain things are established in my mind as facts, but no picture attaches to them; on the other hand there are pictures unverified by any fact which recur obsessively, like the landscape of a dream.

Even the most impassioned devotee of the ghost story would admit that the taste for it is slightly abnormal, a survival, perhaps, from adolescence, a disease of deficiency suffered by those whose lives and imaginations do not react satisfactorily to normal experience and require an extra thrill

But I was not so much interested in facts themselves as in the importance they had for my imagination. I was passionately interested in railways, and in the relative speed of the fastest express trains; but I did not understand the principle of the steam engine and had no wish to learn.

Telling a story is like sowing a seed—you always hope to see it become a beautiful tree, with firm roots and branches that soar up in the sky. But it is a peculiar sowing, for you will never know whether your seed sprouts or dies.

Maybe there is no true story, only imagined stories, vague reflections of what we saw and what we heard, what we felt and what we thought.

The Wizard of Oz." "No, no, no," said Sophie. She quickly