The ecstatic state of wholeness is bound to be transient because it has no part in the total pattern of ‘adaptation through maladaptation’ which is characteristic of our species…the hunger of imagination, the desire and pursuit of the whole, take origin from the realization that something is missing, from awareness of incompleteness.
You don’t read to exercise the mind but to take voyages
God created us in His image, and He gave us an imagination with His imprint to create things for His glory!
Maybe everyone does have a novel in them, perhaps even a great one. I don’t believe it, but for the purposes of this argument, let’s say it’s so. Only a few of us are going to be willing to break our own hearts by trading in the living beauty of imagination for the stark disappointment of words.
We restore order through the imagination. We restore hope over and over and over again … .
We live vicariously through stories, because our own lives provide so few opportunities for high-stakes adventure and noble sacrifice.
I could spend all day lost in someone else’s imagination. I love reading.
To reach only for that which pleasantly enchants you is the least of imagination, if even imagination at all, by the obvious reality of remaining within your means. The greater of imagination is parallel to risk. It extends beyond your comfort zone or haven, or sense of beauty, or what you personally believe suits you in exploration of what may not.
If you sell, say, two thousand copies, it is the same thing as if you had sold nothing at all because two thousand is too vast-I mean, for the imagination to grasp. While thirty-seven people-perhaps thirty-seven are too many, perhaps seventeen would have been better or even seven-but still thirty-seven are still within the scope of one’s imagination.
I see a cathedral, for instance, one that’s stood for centuries and I marvel and I wonder… How many people passed through the doors? What did they pray for? How many wars did they wish to see ended? How many christenings, weddings, and funerals? Same thing with a record, I guess. Who bought it? Did they ever make love while it was playing? How many times did they read the notes in the cover? Did a song on the album change their life? I suppose it’s odd to think about things like that.