Quotes About Imagination

I've had a very sheltered life. What can happen to you if you stay home writing all day?

childhood memories. But now, in 1822, his artistic horizons

For a child of five, art is life and life is art... but once the child is in school they get separated--art becomes art and life becomes life.

I find imaginary numbers useful when computing my tax deductions.

Reading is only dangerous to those who are afraid to imagine,' Mr. Oku says. 'If there is one thing I hope you got out of the Earnest Book Club, it is that each of you is not afraid to use your imagination. That you have accepted Oscar Wilde's invitation to dare. The dare to read books, banned or not. The dare to think. The dare to imagine. The dare to speak your mind. And the dare to be yourself.

No, I would not want to live in a world without dragons, as I would not want to live in a world without magic, for that is a world without mystery, and that is a world without faith.

Definitely they write themselves. It's an amazing experience. It's like the characters have come alive and are sitting on my shoulder talking to me, telling me their tales.

I loved the world of imagination.

I've never dreamed of a story idea. I have such boring dreams.

I started writing when I was 9 years old. I was like this weird kid who would just stay in my room, typing little funny magazines and drawing comic strips.

Most fears are basic: fear of the dark, fear of going down in the basement, fear of weird sounds, fear that somebody is waiting for you in your closet. Those kinds of things stay with you no matter what age.

I got the chance to do things that I dreamed of when I was a kid: I got to travel around the world I had my own 'Goosebumps' attraction at Disney World I've been on TV and had three TV series.

Many adults feel that every children's book has to teach them something.... My theory is a children's book... can be just for fun.

You have to imagine a waiting that is not impatient because it is timeless.

Children's Song We live in our own world, A world that is too small For you to stoop and enter Even on hands and knees, The adult subterfuge. And though you probe and pry With analytic eye, And eavesdrop all our talk With an amused look, You cannot find the centre Where we dance, where we play, Where life is still asleep Under the closed flower, Under the smooth shell Of eggs in the cupped nest That mock the faded blue Of your remoter heaven.

No loss is felt more keenly than the loss of what might have been. No nostalgia hurts as much as nostalgia for things that never existed.

I long ago abandoned myself to a blind lust for the written word. Literature is my sandbox. In it I play, build my forts and castles, spend glorious time.

By nature, a storyteller is a plagiarist. Everything one comes across—each incident, book, novel, life episode, story, person, news clip—is a coffee bean that will be crushed, ground up, mixed with a touch of cardamom, sometimes a tiny pinch of salt, boiled thrice with sugar, and served as a piping-hot tale.

The eye always fills in the imperfections.

I long ago abandoned myself to a blind lust for the written word. Literature is my sandbox. In it I play, build my forts and castles, spend glorious time. It is the world outside that box that gives me trouble. I have adapted tamely, though not conventionally, to this visible world so I can retreat without much inconvenience into my inner world of books.

I slipped into art to escape life. I sneaked off into literature.

I thought every person should live for art, not just me, and furthermore, why would I want to be normal? Why would I want to be stupid like everyone else?

No nostalgia is felt as keenly as nostalgia for things that never existed.

Transmuting this sandy metaphor, if literature is my sandbox, then the real world is my hourglass—an hourglass that drains grain by grain.