Quotes About Imagination

What is Aunt Margaret made of? Bird bones and tissue paper, spun glass and straw.

But I do not want to paint our circumstantial portraits so that we both emerge with enough well-rounded, spuriously detailed actuality that you are forced to believe in us. I do not want to practise such sleight of hand. You must be content only with glimpses of our outlines, as if you had caught sight of our reflections in the looking-glass of somebody else's house as you passed by the window.

They had imagined too often and too much and so they had exhausted all their possibilities. When they embraced each other's phantoms, each in his separate privacy has savoured the most refined of pleasures but, connoisseurs of unreality as they were, they could not bear the crude weight, the rank smell and the ripe taste of real flesh. It is always a dangerous experiment to act out a fantasy; they had undertaken the experiment rashly and had failed…

My fays shall lullaby you as we cuddle up on my mattress of dandelion down.

It is a characteristic of human beings that if they haven't got a family of their own, they will invent one.

Even if it is the dream made flesh, the real, once it becomes real, can be no more than real.

A fairy tale is the kind of story in which one king goes to another king to borrow a cup of sugar.

She quickly interpreted him into her mythology but if, at first, he was a herbivorous lion, later he became a unicorn devouring raw meat.

she found it made things easier if she dramatised them. Or melodramatised them. It was easier, for example, to face the fact of Uncle Philip if she saw him as a character in a film, possibly played by Orson Welles.

Fevvers felt that shivering sensation which always visited her when mages, wizards, impresarios came to take away her singularity as though it were their own invention, as though they believed she depended on their imaginations n order to be a woman. She felt herself turning, willy-nilly, from a woman into an idea.

It doesn't matter if what happens next spoils everything; the anticipation itself is always pure.

Reading a book is like re-writing it for yourself.

You're nothing but the furious invention of my virgin nights.

Lack of imagination gives his heroism to the hero

They rolled all over the pastel crayons scattered on the sheets so her back was variegated with patches and blotches all the colours of the rainbow and Lee was also marked everywhere with brilliant dusts, both here and there also darkly spotted with blood, each a canvas involuntarily patterned by those workings of random chance so much prized by the surrealists.

Reading a book is like re-writing it for yourself. You bring to a novel, anything you read, all your experience of the world. You bring your history and you read it in your own terms.

The child's laughter is pure until he first laughs at a clown.

Stars on our door, stars in our eyes, stars exploding in the bits of our brains where the common sense should have been

For most of human history, 'literature,' both fiction and poetry, has been narrated, not written — heard, not read. So fairy tales, folk tales, stories from the oral tradition, are all of them the most vital connection we have with the imaginations of the ordinary men and women whose labor created our world.

prophet in Shiloh." The reminder that other men also shared the burden of leadership alleviated some of my distress. For years I had imagined myself alone in my task, but if Adonai was also using another man with long plaited hair, maybe the responsibility wasn't as heavy as I feared.

My dear, just because something seems implausible doesn't make it impossible. Think about how long people believed the world was flat.

Wakey Wakey My Little Tinker stud, I want to play with your magic Wand

I suppose everybody has a mental picture of the days of the week, some seeing them as a circle, some as an endless line, and others again, for all I know, as triangles and cubes. Mine is a wavy line proceeding to infinity, dipping to Wednesday which is the colour of old silver dark with polishing and rising again to a pale gold Sunday. This day has a feeling in my picture of warmth and light breezes and sunshine and afternoons that stretch to infinity and mornings full of far-off bells.

If it were in his destiny, which he felt it never would be, to love and be loved, he could imagine a way of love quite different from what he had just seen.