I thought my last hour was approaching; and yet imagination is such a strong thing that even in this supreme hour I was occupied with strange and almost childish speculations. But I was the victim, not the master, of my own thoughts.[Je croyais toucher à ma dernière heure, et, pourtant, l’imagination est si bizarre, que je me livrai à une recherche véritablement enfantine. Mais je subissais mes pensées, je ne les dominais pas!]
There would be far less suffering amongst mankind, if men—and God knows why they are so fashioned—did not employ their imaginations so assiduously in recalling the memory of past sorrow, instead of bearing their present lot with equanimity.
So vast, so limitless in capacity is man’s imagination to disperse and burn away the rubble-dross of fact and probability, leaving only truth and dream.
Habit accustoms us to everything. What we see too much, we no longer imagine; and it is only imagination which makes us feel the ills of others.[L’habitude accoutume à tout; ce qu’on voit trop on ne l’imagine plus, et ce n’est que l’imagination qui nous fait sentir les maux d’autrui.]
A lady’s imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love to matrimony in a moment.
You gave too much rein to your imagination. Imagination is a good servant, and a bad master. The simplest explanation is always the most likely.