Quotes About Imagination

What is youth? A dream. What is love? The dream's content.

Were I to wish for anything I would not wish for wealth and power, but for the passion of the possible, that eye which everywhere, ever young, ever burning, sees possibility. Pleasure disappoints, not possibility.

Genius never desires what does not exist.

What I complain of is that life is not like a novel where there are hard-hearted fathers, and goblins and trolls to fight with, enchanted princesses to free. What are all such enemies taken together compared to the pallid, bloodless, glutinous nocturnal shapes with which I fight and to which I myself give life and being.

No woman in maternity confinement can have stranger and more impatient wishes than I have.

Bulutlar?n h?zl? uçuÅŸlar?, ???k ve karanl???n birbirini kovalamas? beni öylesine sarhoÅŸ eder ki uyan?k olduÄŸum halde düÅŸ görürüm

AÅŸk için her ÅŸey imgedir; ama imge de hakikattir.

Algo de un rey se encuentra en mi ser; pero tú no puedes siquiera imaginar cuál es mi reino.

I divide my time as follows: half the time I sleep, the other half I dream. I never dream when I sleep, for that would be a pity, for sleeping is the highest accomplishment of genius

Ei ajattelu ole yhtään sen arvokkaampaa kuin mielikuvitus tai tunne, vaan niihin rinnastettavaa. Ajattelun ylivalta johtaa harhaan.

A intra ca un vis în gândurile unei fete e o art?,a reuÅŸi s?-i ieÅŸi din gând e o capodoper?

Every reality that we can make begins with a dream

A moment later, Schrift reappeared in a striking pair of undershorts, with vertical stripes like French wallpaper. "Now, for openers," he began, extracting the trees from a pair of suède chukker boots, "did you read this new best seller Valuta, by Waldemar Knobnose!" "Only the first eighteen pages," I admitted. "The woman whose copy it was got off the bus at Altman's.

You'll have to leave my meals on a tray outside the door because I'll be working pretty late on the secret of making myself invisible, which may take me almost until eleven o'clock.

The knife he held was obsidian, sharp enough to cut a dream.

Ideas themselves were sensual things to him.

No one in life can ever match fiction

We ask the child to drag around the unwieldy weight of magic. To clap wildly. To believe in what we believe in no longer. We ask the child to keep the awe we forgot how to hold. The fairy isn't the fairy. It's the child who is the fairy.

Guilt. Does anyone escape it? Is guilt the reason we make up stories?

we emphatically do not want to find that we have reached such a state of dearth in our society that we must provide food banks for the imagination as well as, as we so regrettably have to do today, for the physical body.

I guess it's easy to lose yourself in a book," Leo said quietly, "when the real world doesn't feel so friendly.

Nothing comes from nothing, Thieflet; no story comes from nowhere; new stories are born from old--it is the new combinations that make them new.

When you throw everything up in the air anything becomes possible.

What grows best in the heat: fantasy; unreason; lust.