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Quote by H.G. Wells

“Now what sort of books will he need? There is his imagination to be fed. That, after all, is the crown of every education. The crown - as sound habits of mind and conduct are the throne. No imagination at all is brutality; a base imagination is lust and cowardice; but a noble imagination is God walking the earth again.”

Quote by H.G. Wells

Book:The Food of the Gods
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The Food of the Gods

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H.G. Wells

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“I push my eye farther into the crack, smushing my cheek. The door rattles. Her arm freezes. The needle stops. Instantly, her shadow fills the room, a mountain on the wall. “Leidah?” I hold my breath. No hiding in the wood-box this time. Before I even have time to pull my eye away, the door opens. My mother's face, like the moon in the dark hallway. She squints and takes a step toward me. “Lei-lee?” I want to tell her I’ve had a nightmare about the Sisters, that I can’t sleep with all this whispering and worrying from her—and what are you sewing in the dark, Mamma? I try to move my lips, but I have no mouth. My tongue is gone; my nose is gone. I don’t have a face anymore. It has happened again. I am lying on my back, flatter than bread. My mother’s bare feet slap against my skin, across my belly, my chest. She digs her heel in, at my throat that isn’t there. I can see her head turning toward her bedroom. Snores crawl under the closed door. The door to my room is open, but she can’t see my bed from where she stands, can’t see that my bed is empty. She nods to herself: everything as it should be. Her foot grinds into my chin. The door to the sewing room closes behind her. I struggle to sit up. I wiggle my hips and jiggle my legs. It is no use. I am stuck, pressed flat into the grain of wood under me. But it’s not under me. It is me. I have become the floor. I know it’s true, even as I tell myself I am dreaming, that I am still in bed under the covers. My blood whirls inside the wood knots, spinning and rushing, sucking me down and down. The nicks of boot prints stomp and kick at my bones, like a bruise. I feel the clunk of one board to the next, like bumps of a wheel over stone. And then I am all of it, every knot, grain, and sliver, running down the hall, whooshing like a river, ever so fast, over the edge and down a waterfall, rushing from room to room. I pour myself under and over and through, feeling objects brush against me as I pass by. Bookshelves, bedposts, Pappa’s slippers, a fallen dressing gown, the stubby ends of an old chair. A mouse hiding inside a hole in the wall. Mor’s needle bobbing up and down. How is this possible? I am so wide, I can see both Mor and Far at the same time, even though they are in different rooms, one wide awake, the other fast asleep. I feel my father’s breath easily, sinking through the bed into me, while Mor’s breath fights against me, against the floor. In and out, each breath swimming away, away, at the speed of her needle, up up up in out in out outoutout—let me out, get me out, I want out. That’s what Mamma is thinking, and I hear it, loud and clear. I strain my ears against the wood to get back into my own body. Nothing happens. I try again, but this time push hard with my arms that aren’t there. Nothing at all. I stop and sink, letting go, giving myself into the floor. Seven, soon to be eight… it’s time, time’s up, time to go. The needle is singing, as sure as stitches on a seam. I am inside the thread, inside her head. Mamma is ticking—onetwothreefourfivesix— Seven. Seven what? And why is it time to go? Don’t leave me, Mamma. I beg her feet, her knees, her hips, her chest, her heart, my begging spreading like a big squid into the very skin of her. It’s then that I feel it. Something is happening to Mamma. Something neither Pappa nor I have noticed. She is becoming dust. She is drier than the wood I have become. - Becoming Leidah Quoted by copying text from the epub version using BlueFire e-reader.”

PoetryImaginationMagicMagical RealismOutcastNorseWiccaSelkieAncestralShapeshift
Book:Becoming Leidah
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“There are lands of the imagination that cannot exist, but seem real; and there are lands that once existed that somehow seem remote and hard to credit. Perhaps their comparative solidity depends on the hand of a skilled writer. Who can doubt the reality of the countries beyond the sea that Jonathan Swift peopled so skilfully for his hero Lemuel Gulliver to visit, not merely to stimulate the imagination, but as a ruse to illustrate human frailties: puffed up and monstrous in Brobdignag, or shrunk in Lilliput to petty proportions to match the triviality of their concerns? Yet to travel back in time to the land of the Gonds - Gondwana - or to try to grasp the reality of Pangaea 250 million years ago seems to require a greater leap of imagination. But these places existed, as solid as Africa is today.”

ImaginationGulliverGondwanaPangaeaBrobdignagImaginary LandsLeap Of ImaginationLilliputRemote Lands
Book:Earth: An Intimate History
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“«[...] frequentare me, sentirmi raccontare delle mie esperienze passate, rafforza quell'idea tutta positiva e assolutamente acritica dell'altro mondo, dell'Occidente... Non so... A volte ho paura di aver...» «Di averle aiutate a crearsi una fantasia parallela», intervenne lui «che si contrappone alla sovrastruttura inventata dalla Repubblica islamica?» «Sì, sì» annuii con foga. «Be', allora, in primo luogo non è solo colpa tua. Nessuno riuscirebbe a sopravvivere nel mondo che vogliono imporci loro: dobbiamo tutti inventarci un paradiso personale verso cui evadere. Nondimeno», concluse «qualcosa che puoi fare ci sarebbe». «Davvero?» domandai ansiosa, ancora un po' avvilita, e morendo dalla voglia di ricevere istruzioni, per una volta, anziché darne. «Sì, davvero, e anzi lo stai già facendo con questo tuo seminario, se non rovini tutto. Fa' ciò che i poeti fanno con i loro re filosofi. Non c'è bisogno di creare una fantasia parallela dell'Occidente: da' alle tue ragazze il meglio di quanto l'altro mondo può offrire: la finzione letteraria - restituisci loro l'immaginazione!» concluse trionfante [...]”

ReadingLiteratureImagination
Book:Reading Lolita in Tehran: A Memoir in Books
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