Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Whimsy. Share them with your friends on social media platforms like Facebook, Twitter, or your personal blogs, and let the world be inspired by their powerful messages. Here are the Top 100 Whimsy Quotes And Sayings by 96 Authors including W.b.yeats,Cheryl Richardson,Akilah Shabazz,Robert Louis Stevenson,Logan Pearsall Smith for you to enjoy and share.
A lonely impulse of delight
Express your creativity. Delight in the mystery of your inner muse.
Poetic passion leaps from the depths of the soul to ignite the world...
We had each of us some whimsy in the brain, which we believed more than anything else, and which discoloured all experience to its own shade.
An echo of music, a face in the street, the wafer of the new moon, a wanton thought - only in the iridescence of things the vagabond soul is happy.
The winds with wonder whist, Smoothly the waters kisst.
Things have to be beautifully made, even if they are full of fun, fantasy and futility
In the actual world
the painful kingdom of time and place
dwell care, and canker, and fear. With thought, with the ideal, is immortal hilarity, the rose of joy.
This sense of eagerness, of hope and of secret excitement. It was as if normal existence were a photograph of shapeless things in badly printed colors, but this was a sketch done in a few sharp strokes that made things seem clean, important - and worth doing.
Imagination and the journey-quest is at the heart of every life well-lived
This is truly marvelous work full of mystery, nostalgia, joy, The Color of Whimsy.
Creativity. Taking something enormously strange and somehow making it strangely familiar.
Inspiration in desperation.
Ecstatic absurdity: it's the confrontation with meaninglessness.
Formerly it was the fashion to preach the natural; now it is the ideal. People too often forget that these things are profoundly compatible; that in a beautiful work of imagination the natural should be ideal, and the ideal natural.
Life is full of disparate details arbitrarily joined together by dreams, pain and yearning. I do not long for sense, but I call for emotion and imagination amidst this chaos.
Let me formulate the artistic disposition as follows: it is reacting with one's ideal to the flaw in oneself and in the world, and somehow making that reaction formation solid enough in the medium so that it indeed becomes an improved bit of real world for others.
Ah, art! Ah, life! The pendulum swinging back and forth, from complex to simple, again to complex. From romantic to realistic, back to romantic.
Wondrous is the strength of cheerfulness, and its power of endurance - the cheerful man will do more in the same time, will do it; better, will preserve it longer, than the sad or sullen.
Coquetry, it's a triumph of the spirit over the senses.
A creative train of thought is set off by: the unexpected, the unknown, the accidental, the disorderly, the absurd, the impossible.
All human creativity issues from the urgency of longing.
I thought to myself with what means, with what deceptions, with how many varied arts, with what industry a man sharpens his wits to deceive another and through these variations the world is made more beautiful.
Few know the joys that spring from a disinterested curiosity. It is like a cheerful spirit that leads us through worlds filled with what is true and fair, which we admire and love because it is true and fair.
This world of sense, built by the imagination
how fair and foul it is! Like a fairy island in the sea of life, it smiles in sunlight and sleeps in green, known of the world not by communion of knowledge, but by personal, secret discovery!
What for me is bliss and life and ecstasy and exaltation, the world in general seeks at most in imagination; in life it finds it absurd.
Creativity: that which wasn't there before, but which can be made simply and completely.
Idleness, simon-pure, from which all manner of good springs like seed from a fallow soil, is sure to be misnamed and misconstrued ...
Witticisms are fire-arms, that make a noise and give pain ...
Th' embroid'ry of poetic dreams.
Wit is the unexpected copulation of ideas.
Some to conceit alone their taste confine,
And glittering thoughts struck out at ev'ry line;
Pleas'd with a work where nothing's just or fit;
One glaring chaos and wild heap of wit.
But in this life we take turns at being enchanting, then enchanted. First we play in the streets, unaware of the freedom burning in the sun on our hair and the cigarette in our mouth, unconscious of the daydreams we inspire. Then it's our time to sit at a window and watch, and we are moved.
I've learned to respect the whimsical.
A ridiculous passion which hath no being but in play-books and romances.
Ardent
yet chill and formal,
how I ache
to tempt a chisel
as a sculptor.
An artistic endeavour comes into the world naked, unnamed, and vulnerable. Every creative effort requires the artist to wrest something from nothingness, a purposive cosmos from an apparently indifferent chaos.
Daring life, graceful living.
How do our lives ravel out
into the no-wind, no-sound,
the weary gestures wearily recapitulant:
echoes of old compulsions with no-hand on no-string:
in sunset we fall into furious attitudes,
dead gestures of dolls.
Precious attribute of woe-worn humanity! that can snatch ecstatic emotion, even from under the very share and harrow, that ruthlessly ploughs up and lays waste every hope.
Hijinxs and crazy shenanigans that'll leave you chuckling to the bewilderment of those around you - Love Romance Passion
In this world, artists are joyous. Unpredictability is the life of their paintings, their music, their novels. They delight in events not forecasted, happenings without explanation, retrospective.
Desiring the exhilarations of changes:
The motive for metaphor, shrinking from
The weight of primary noon ...
The thought of how much happiness lay scattered across the universe, unrealized, in fragments, waiting for the right twist of fate to bring it together.
The imagination needs moodling,
long, inefficient happy idling, dawdling and puttering.
Creativity is discontent translated into arts.
The cruel-hearted love upon the wind and dash feelings until none are left.
Art is the reasoned derangement of the senses.
Something soft and wild and free, something that whispered to the ear on the pillow, lightened the heart, softly, softly picked the lock, slid the bolts, and released the prisoned spirit of man into the wind, into the blue and gold, into the morning, into the morning!
When imagination fails, compassion and humaneness dwindle and atrophy along with it. Unleavened by imagination, the variety and richness of life turn into flat abstractions; people become objects to be manipulated
with the social consequences we know all too well.
Wit is the flower of the imagination.
The sorcery and charm of imagination, and the power it gives to the individual to transform his world into a new world of order and delight, makes it one of the most treasured of all human capacities.
Out of the bliss comes magic, wonderment and creativity.
No fairy tale, this. This was by no stretch of the imagination a polished fantasy. This was a searing, living force, rough around the edges, unfamiliar and bittersweet.
And precious.
Sadness of feeling the need to create beautiful things;
Lovers and mystics are familiar with this sense of grandeur, this taste of joy - in abandoning oneself to the will of others.
Evoking memories, particularly of days gone by.
From the tattered edges of an exhausted mind, inspiration blooms ... mental filters disintegrate and walls crumble, as the ocean of creativity washes over everything.
Strangeness which is the essence of beauty is the essence of truth, and the essence of the world. I have often felt that; when the ascent of a long hill brought me to the summit of an undiscovered height in London; and I looked down on a new land.
The thoughtful excitement of lonely rambles, of gardening, and of other like occupations, where the mind has leisure to must during the healthful activity of the body, with the fresh and wakeful breezes blowing round it ...
A certain jollity of mind, pickled in the scorn of fortune.
Dreams! in their vivid coloring of life,
As in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife
Of semblance with reality, which brings
To the delirious eye, more lovely things
Of Paradise and Love- and all our own!
Than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known.
We find ourselves in a world of transporting pleasures, ravishing beauties, and tantalising possibilities, but all constantly being destroyed, all coming to nothing. Nature has all the air of a good thing spoiled.
Chaos and love when hand in hand and oh, the glorious grace of the world because of it.
Oh! the joy Of young ideas painted on the mind, In the warm glowing colors fancy spreads On objects not yet known, when all is new, And all is lovely.
A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain.
An art aims, above all, at producing something beautiful which affects not our feelings but the organ of pure contemplation, our imagination.
Innate in nearly every artistic nature is a wanton, treacherous penchant for accepting injustice when it creates beauty and showing sympathy for and paying homage to aristocratic privilege.
Random thoughts that fly away.
Where words has no place to stay.
Let it be right where they are.
Let the work of art preserve its life.
Jealousy, an eminently credulous and suspicious passion, allows fancy the greatest possible play. But it does not bestow wit, it banishes all sense.
Joy and woe are woven fine, a clothing for the soul divine. Under every grief and pine, runs a joy with silken twine.
Life, a beauty chased by tragic laughter.
Reason, indeed, may oft complain For Nature's sad reality, And tell the suffering heart how vain Its cherished dreams must always be; And Truth may rudely trample down The flowers of Fancy, newly-blown:
Something which, for want of a more definite term at present, I must be permitted to be called queer; but which Mr. Coleridge would have called mystical, Mr. Kant pantheistical, Mr. Carlyle twistical, and Mr. Emerson hyperquizzitistical.
A meaningful life - this is what we look for in art, in its smallest dewdrops as in its unleashing of the tempest. We are at peace when we have found it and uneasy when we have not.
You sought to preserve your creative instincts and what would nourish them. But neurosis itself does not nourish the artist, you know; he creates in spite of it, out of anything, any material given to him. The torments and hells of [crazy men], are not for you.
random thoughts allow words to play, to the writer it means to twist & turn the words to create a masterpiece that no one else has ever done.
Despaired of any rest or contentment in a world grown too busy for beauty and too shrewd for dreams
Camus says in 'The Stranger' that reason is the enemy of imagination. Sometimes you have to put reason aside and make something beautiful.
Happiness is not an ideal of reason, but of imagination.
Round about what is, lies a whole mysterious world of might be, a psychological romance of possibilities and things that do not happen.
Behind the aesthetic form lies the repressed harmony of sensuousness and reason
Poetry is a whim of Nature in her lighter moods; it requires nothing but its own madness and, lacking that, it becomes a soundless cymbal, a belfry without a bell.
Of love, that fairest joys give most unrest.
Giving style to one's character - a great and rare art! It is exercised by those who see all the strengths and weaknesses of their own natures and then comprehend them in an artistic plan until everything appears as art and reason and even weakness delights the eye.
It is not fantasy's hot fire,
Whose wishes, son as granted, fly;
It liveth not in fierce desire,
With dead desire it doth not die;
It is the secret sympathy,
The silver link, the silken tie,
Which heart to heart, and mind to mind,
In body and in soul can bind.
Spurious prudence, making the senses final, is the god of sots and cowards, and is the subject of all comedy. It is nature's joke, and therefore literature's. True prudence limits this sensualism by admitting the knowledge of an internal and real world.
That is longing: To dwell in the flux of things,
To have no home in the present.
And these are wishes: gentle dialogues
Of the poor hours with eternity.
What a richly colored strong warm coat is woven when love is the warp and work is the woof.
Character halts without aid of the imagination, which our classes in Shakespeare and Browning, music and drawing, recognize not only as amusement and by-play of the mind, but a co-ordinate power. Its work is unhappily styled fiction; for to idealize is to realize.
Pursuit of passion,
Wit is an unexpected explosion of thought.
Boredom is simply romanticism with a morning-after thirst.
Passionately obsessed by anything we love
an avalanche of magic flattens the way ahead, levels, rules, reasons, dissents, bears us with it over chasms, fears, doubts. Without the power of that love ...
At the heart of the ridiculous, the sublime
The romance of danger and adventure in forbidden places.
I think my friends would say I'm pretty goal-focused but whimsical.
Desire dazzles, and the sun gives life.
What was romance but a lovely bit of play between man and woman?
Imagination at wit's end spreads its sad wings.