Quotes About Imagination

The artist in me cries out for design.

That day she put our heads together,Fate had her imagination about her,Your head so much concerned with outer,Mine with inner, weather.

An idea is a feat of association.

To be a poet is a condition, not a profession.

If you want an interesting party sometime, combine cocktails and a fresh box of crayons for everyone.

I believe that imagination is stronger than knowledge. That myth is more potent than history. That dreams are more powerful than facts. That hope always triumphs over experience. That laughter is the only cure for grief. And I believe that love is stronger than death.

What I notice is that every adult or child I give a new set of Crayolas to goes a little funny. The kids smile, get a glazed look on their faces, pour the crayons out, and just look at them for a while....The adults always get the most wonderful kind of sheepish smile on their faces--a mixture of delight and nostalgia and silliness. And they immediately start telling you about all their experiences with Crayolas.

It's the spirit here that counts. The time may be long, the vehicle may be strange or unexpected. But if the dream is held close to the heart, and imagination is applied to what there is close at hand, everything is still possible.

I will not attack your doctrines nor your creeds if they accord liberty to me. If they hold thought to be dangerous - if they aver that doubt is a crime, then I attack them one and all, because they enslave the minds of men. I attack the monsters, the phantoms of imagination that have ruled the world. I attack slavery. I ask for room -- room for the human mind.

We need readers," muttered Daniel Chard. "More readers. Fewer writers.

He possessed a finely honed sense for the strange and the wicked. He had seen things all through his childhood that other people preferred to imagine happened only in films.

Writers are different," said Waldegrave. "I've never met one who was any good who wasn't screwy.

He wondered fleetingly how many people who sat alone for hours as they scribbled their stories practiced talking about their work during their coffee breaks....

she'd seen a flicker of something in his face that wasn't mere friendship, and they'd hugged, and she'd felt . . . Best not to dwell on that hug, on how like home it had felt, on how a kind of insanity had gripped her at that moment, and she'd imagined him saying 'come with me' and known she'd have gone if he had.

The whole world's writing novels, but nobody's reading them. We need readers. More readers. Fewer writers.

They don't disappear, the dead. It'd be easier if they did. I can see her so clearly. If she walked up those steps now, part of me wouldn't be surprised. She was such a vivid person.

You ought to give up detecting and try fantasy writing, Strike

We don't love each other; we love the idea we have of each other.

So I've been forced to the conclusion," said Strike, "that the Bombyx Mori everyone's read is a different book to the Bombyx Mori Owen Quine wrote.

Id rather die than have more. Actually I'd rather die than most things. But you know that about me. Will I ever see you again? You could come and see me here. Today I imagined you walking in, like I did when your leg. I imagined you telling them to let me go because you loved me and you'd look after me. I cried . . .

Wisps of her dreams still clung about her . . .

An image of Charlotte hung permanently in Robin's head these days, like a shadowy portrait she'd never wanted hung . . . Last night, though, that image had become stark and fixed: a darkly romantic vision of a lost and dying love, breathing her final words in Strike's ear as she lay among the trees.

He pointed a finger at the sky. 'What?' said Robin, looking up into the blue haze. 'If you look carefully,' said Strike, 'you might just see an asteroid passing through the house of bollocks.

Strike hated the memory of these fantasies more than he hated remembering the pain caused by their eternal unfulfillment . . .