Quotes About Imagination

They are talking to me and around me, but I can't hear them. I pretend to be interested in one of my books, but the words dance on the page.

I imagine his little bones in his little grave, and it is the saddest thought in the world.

The only thing I leave alone is the ceiling, because white contains all the wavelengths of the visible spectrum at full brightness. Okay, this is technically true of white light and not white paint, but I don't care. I tell myself that all the colors are there anyway, and this gives me an idea. I think of writing it as a song, but instead I sign onto the computer and send a message to Violet. You are all the colors in one, at full brightness.

I love the world that is my room. It's nicer in here than out there, because in here I'm whatever I want to be.

So I make up song after song. Most nights, these are Songs That Will Change the World because they are that good and that deep and that damn amazing.

For a few moments I want to be 5 years old again. I want someone to plunk me down in front of a Disney movie and ask me if I want apple juice or grape.

Cram your head with characters and stories. Abuse your library privileges. Never stop looking at the world, and never stop reading to find out what sense other people have made of it. If people give you a hard time and tell you to get your nose out of a book, tell them you're working. Tell them it's research. Tell them to pipe down and leave you alone.

Cram your head with characters and stories. Abuse your library privileges. Never stop looking at the world, and never stop reading to find out what sense other people have made of it. If people give you a hard time and tell you to get your nose out of a book, tell them you're working. Tell them it's research. Tell them to pipe down and leave you alone.

When I was five I learned to read. Books were a miracle to me - white pages, black ink, and new worlds and different friends in each one. To this day, I relish the feeling of cracking a binding for the first time, the anticipation of where I'll go and whom I'll meet inside.

Tell the story that's been growing in your heart, the characters you can't keep out of your head, the tale story that speaks to you, that pops into your head during your daily commute, that wakes you up in the morning.

How marvelous to leave the real world with all its cares behind and step into another, more vivid, more vital, alive with fascinating characters whose lives you alone control.

Growing up, my sisters and I would always talk stories. One of my frustrations was I didn't know anything about cameras. I didn't know how to make a film and I obviously didn't have a special effects budget. I was a kid. So I was learning to draw to get down the stuff that was in my head, that I couldn't afford to actually do.

The call to dreams is a call to soul.

As Einstein said, knowledge is limited, but imagination is not.

What image of beauty we hold exists so brilliantly, so beautifully in our minds, and the sad task then is to somehow transcribe this image so that it becomes viewable to others.

It wasn't that the ice-cream man came everyday; he came whenever the child heard his music.

But when do the daydreams begin and the dreams end, and where does the sky end and the prairie grass begin? There are stars in the grass.

With dreaming, we speak differently. We use the past tense. Dreams are about the past, but we want them to be about the present, the future. That is, we will make them mean something.

Helping to match people to the book that would change their life, or make them fall in love, or get over a love affair gone wrong. And for the children, she could show them where to dive into a crocodile-infested river, or fly through the stars, or open the door of a wardrobe...

Nina had been told regularly since she was a child that she needed more fresh air, at which she would take her book and clamber up the apple tree at the bottom of their tatty garden, away from the car her father was always tinkering with but had never driven in all the years of her childhood—she wondered what had happened to it—and hide there, braced against the trunk, her feet swinging, burying herself in Enid Blyton or Roald Dahl until she was allowed back inside again.

Reading is being in stuff." Ben squinted. "Like actually being there?" "Like actually being there. You plug straight into the writer's brain. It's just you and them. You experience what they experience.

Books are absolutely the thing in my opinion, or as the old saying goes: whatever gets you through the night (which I should say is also books. Books get you through the night).)

Nina wondered what on Earth it would be to have that much money; to buy that many books without worrying.

I just . . . I built him up in my mind so much." "Too much reading." "In my head, he was this kind of lost romantic hero." "He can't get lost, he drives a train.