Quotes About Creativity

The songs don't spring whole into existence; they are built.

I think that people who can't believe in fairies aren't worth knowing.

Creativity is the state of consciousness in which you enter into the treasury of your innermost being and bring the beauty into manifestation." (p.232)

Although I am basically self taught, I consider Debussy my teacher - the most important elements are colour, light and shadow.

Many contemporary composers have been building walls of sounds following their own clever devices. But then, who lives inside those rooms?

For me, if I can design beautiful things that have the price be lower, I am thrilled.

I am alone all day, I read a little but it gives me a headache. I draw and I paint, as much as I can, so much so that my hand gets tired and when it begins to get dark I wait to see if Jeanne d'Armagnac [one of the cousins] will come and sit by my bed. She comes sometimes and tries to distract me and play with me, and I listen to her speak without daring to look at her, she is so tall and so beautiful! And I am neither tall nor beautiful.

Even though no one else cares for my poems, I have to write them because it dulls the sorrow and longing in my heart.

Jeg vil gerne rette en særlig tak til Illums Bolighus, fordi de skabte så smagfuldt og fint gennemtænkt et hjem for en familie, der aldrig har eksisteret.

Engang vil jeg skrive alle de ord ned, der gennemstrømmer mig. Engang skal andre mennesker læse dem i en bog og undre sig over, at en pige alligevel kunne blive digter.

Someday I'll write down all of the words that flow through me. Someday other people will read them in a book and marvel that a girl could be a poet, after all . . . I want so badly to write down the words, but where in the world would I hide such papers?

I carried the cups out to the kitchen, and inside of me long, mysterious words began to crawl across my soul like a protective membrane. A song, a poem, something soothing and rhythmic and immensely pensive, but never distressing or sad, as I knew the rest of my day would be distressing and sad. When these light waves of words streamed through me, I knew that my mother couldn't do anything else to me because she had stopped being important to me.

It was enough for me anyway to write the poems; there was no hurry to show them to a world that so far had only laughed and scorned them.

It was simply that she was only fully alive when she devoted herself to her singular ability to draw, and when she drew she was naturally always alone.

Everyone must imagine his own snakes because no one else's snakes can ever be as awful.

Pearls' burst out the Snork Maiden excitedly. 'Could ankle rings be made out of pearls?' 'I should think they could,' said Moomintoll. 'Ankle-rings, and nose-rings and ear-rings and engagement rings...

How does one get famous?" the Joxter asked. "Oh, just by doing something that nobody else has been able to do.

She had picked the spot the day before and carried out a stool low enough to sit on and still have her paintbox and her water cup within reach. Anna didn't use an easel. Easels seemed to her an altogether too assertive aid, too obvious. She liked to work as unobtrusively as possible, the paper spread on a board in her lap, close to her hand.

Can you win anything better than the useless rewards of a fantastical imagination?

Passion. As you can see, I've lived quite a long time, which is to say I've been working for quite a long time, which is the same thing. And you know what? In the whole silly business, the only thing that really matters is passion. It comes and it goes. At first it just comes to you free of charge, and you don't understand, and you waste it. And then it becomes a thing to nurture.

Sophia thought about the bathrobe more and more. The thing living in it was as quick as lightning but could lie in wait for days without moving. It could make itself thin and slide through a crack in the door, and then roll itself up again and crawl under the bed like a shadow. It didn't eat and never slept and hated everyone, most of all its own family. Sophia didn't eat either, that is, nothing but sandwiches.

It's the unexpressed that interests me, he thought. I've been drawing too explicitly; it's a mistake to clarify everything.

Grandmother sat in the magic forest and carved outlandish animals. She cut them from branches and driftwood and gave them paws and faces, but she only hinted at what they looked like and never made them too distinct. They retained their wooden souls...

is that they come up with so many ideas and then they manage to carry them out and believe so strongly in what they do.