Quotes About Imagination

That was how you knew love. My mother had told me that. All you had to do as imagine your life without the other person, and if the thought alone made you shiver, then you knew.

The story became a cloud, and the cloud a sheet of rain, and rain fell throughout the empire.

who I am to talk? I dream of rain.

He thought about where it was people went when they died, & how when he squinted he could see Cody, racing back & forth, barking, how his father seemed to stand right there on the riverbank, turning back the bees, closer than he'd ever been before.

but when there was nothing left to try it could not hurt to believe in something, however preposterous it might seem.

It's just for people who want to escape real life." Isabel remembered what books had meant to her so long ago, and she suddenly had a longing for all those fictional worlds that had helped her through the worst years of her life.

In a novel, you'll find yourself in a world of possibilities. You'll find shelter there.

Writing itself was a magical act in which imagination altered reality and gave form to power. To this end, the book was the most powerful element of all.

She had always been a practical girl, and was one still. "I know there's no such thing as what you say we are. It's a fairy tale, a compilation of people's groundless fears.

Reading is never wasted time

This made sense when I began to draw, creating the elements one image at a time until the world appeared on the paper.

The strangest thing about her was the way she gazed out the window, as if there was someplace she wanted to be, some other life that was more worth living.

Alice: Why is a raven like a writing desk? Hatter: I haven't the faintest idea.

Reading is the magic key that takes you where you want to be.

Invention comes about when we let it, when we don't mind feeling stupid as we do it— it feels like what children do, it is what children do — when we clear a place for it, become quiet, and wait.

Scribble out the world since it was not to your liking and make up a new one, something better.

WHEN JOHN AND MARY KEANE said "during the war," their children imagined the world gone black and white, imagined a hand passing like a dark cloud over the earth, blotting out the sun for what might only have been the duration of a single night, or the length of a storm. Long before any of them was born, after all, their parents, the world itself, had emerged from that shadow.

THE TINY SPIDERS that lived in the higher branches of the downed tree (which now meant the branches that lay on the other side of the crushed fence that separated front yard from back) were bright red. At the end of the day, even the careful children had the marks of them, bloody starbursts on their palms. And the smell of the green wood, the tender leaves

Saw in her mind's eye that delicious moment when Stan—a version of the piano player himself, when you thought about it—smiled the sweet self-satisfied smile that always preceded the double take, the panic, the inevitable disaster. (Down, down, down the keyboard he went and down, down, down in her mind's eye went the poor piano.) Images that stayed with her even as John woke and

Michael had slipped beyond the crest of the dune. Jacob was lying flat out now, on his stomach, his little men all before him, and Annie had followed her single soldier up the dune to a grassy patch where the wind whipped her dark hair and the blowing sand made her squint, even

sometimes wonder if all the faith and all the fancy, all the fear, the speculation, all the wild imaginings that go into the study of heaven and hell, don't shortchange, after all, that other, earlier uncertainty: the darkness before the slow coming to awareness of the first light.

He imagined paper napkins and paper cups, wax paper, cheese, wafers of white bread lifted by the wind, swirled about the car.

Once we realize the immense amount of energy children can summon up in order to survive cruelty and extreme sadism, things suddenly start looking more optimistic. Then it is easy to imagine that our world could be a much better one if those children (like Rimbaud, Schiller, Dostoevsky, and Nietzsche) could expend their almost limitless energies on other, more productive ends than merely fighting for their own survival.

Accordingly, he came to believe that his immediate environment was the world itself.