Quotes About Imagination

Isn't it true that all the people I know in the world so far are hardly more than puppets for me, serving the glossy contrivings of my imagination?

Tämän kirjeen kirjoittaminen on kuin panisi viestin pulloon - ja toivoisi sen päätyvän Japaniin.

caramel Camelot.

She liked to imagine that when she passed, the world looked after her, but she also knew how anonymous she was. Except when she was at work, no one knew where she was at any time of day and no one waited for her. It was immaculate anonymity.

The earth has a mouth?" Buckley asked. A big round mouth but with no lips," my father said. Jack," my mother said, laughing, "stop it. Do you know I caught him outside growling at the snapdragons?

Look what happens when we dream.

One day, Buckley came home from the second grade with a story he'd written: "Once upon a time there was a kid named Billy. He liked to explore. He saw a hole and went inside but he never came out. The End.

She liked to imagine that when she passed the world looked after her, but she also knew how anonymous she was.

I focused very hard on the dead geranium in his line of vision. I thought if I could make it bloom he would have his answer. In my heaven it bloomed. In my heaven geranium petals swirled in eddies up to my waist. On Earth nothing happened... I stood alone in a sea of bright petals.

In the drawing a thick blue line separated the air and ground. In the days that followed I watched my family walk back and forth past that drawing and I became convinced that the thick blue line was a real place - an Inbetween, where heaven's horizon met Earth's. I wanted to go there into the cornflower blue of Crayola, the royal, the turquoise, the sky.

She thought of sex as the Star Trek transport. You vaporized and found yourself navigating another planet within the second or two it took to realign.

They kissed. They wanted to do more but couldn't. Samuel wanted it to be special. He was aware that it should be perfect. Lindsey just wanted to get it over with. Have it behind her so she could achieve adulthood—transcend the place and the time. She thought of sex as the Star Trek transport. You vaporized and found yourself navigating another planet within the second or two it took to realign.

As I set out each day, I felt like a young child again. One who hadn't yet learned the rules of manmade time; the rules of clocks and calendars, of weekdays and weekends. Except the primitive markers of day and night, time lay ahead of me in a continuous, undefined mass.

You are saying, are you not, I said to Manuelito, that stories have more room in them than ideas? [...] He laughed. That is correct, Señor. It is as if ideas are made of blocks. Rigid and hard. And stories are made of a gauze that is elastic. You can almost see through it, so what is beyond is tantalizing. You can't quite make it out; and because the imagination is always moving forward, you yourself are constantly stretching. Stories are the way spirit is exercised.

My fantasy life. Without it I'm afraid to exist.

Writing permits me to be more than I am. Writing permits me to experience life as any number of strange creations.

She used to read to us without pity; forcing words, lies, other folks' habits, whole lives upon us two, sitting trapped and ignorant underneath her voice. She washed us in a river of make-believe, burned us with a lot of knowledge we didn't necessarily need to know.

When I was a child I read books for entertainment and information; I now think of books as lifeboats.

The mysterious inner life that she had imagined gave them a secret joy was simply a full knowledge of the fact that they were dead, living just enough for their children.

The reason I absolutely treasure literature is that it has taken me out of myself. Out of the narrow self, in which I could easily be stuck, and it has opened up the world to me. It has opened up the emotions of other people and their own aspirations and cares-Alice Walker

He was in the jovial mood, as he sometimes phrased it, of the literarily inclined escaped convict.

But cheer up. Who could have imagined What the world is really like When we were children? We're old now, but in spite of all we learned, So much of it dreadful and scary, even Petrifying, We gave Life Our best shot. Perfection will have To wait for the next incarnation. And I mean of the world, not just us.

I write all the things I should have been able to read.

Look closely at the Present you are Contructing, it should look like the Future you are Dreaming