Imagination is the golden-eyed monster that never sleeps. It must be fed; it cannot be ignored.
The odd thing about people who had many books was how they always wanted more.
Words, he decided, were inadequate at best, impossible at worst. They meant too many things. Or they meant nothing at all.
When you choose a man who thinks eight seconds is a long time, perhaps you need two of them. Hmm?
How strange to be in a dream one moment and in the world the next, and to know the difference in the blink of an eye.
Those who fear the imagination condemn it: something childish, they say, something monsterish, misbegotten. Not all of us dream awake. But those of us who do have no choice.
She is our moon. Our tidal pull. She is the rich deep beneath the sea, the buried treasure, the expression in the owl’s eye, the perfume in the wild rose. She is what the water says when it moves.
That’s the beginning of magic. Let your imagination run and follow it.
Imagination is best fed by reality, an odd diet for something nonexistent there are few details of daily life and its broad range of emotional context that can’t be transformed into food for the imagination.