Well, we on the other hand are hopelessly reversed. We have a little understanding, but we have almost no imagination. Perhaps none at all. On my part, I have forgotten more of my own imagining than I will ever learn elsewhere. And the thing is, while we can share understanding, while we can shape knowledge and concepts into pieces that even children can grasp, it is a silly thing to imagine that they can share their imagination with us.
The truth is that once old, the imagination is lost, forever. Our eyes see clearly in dimension - shape, size and colour - the mind takes clearly and almost literally, but together they do not intuitively conceive the strangeness of life, nor take curiosity at the mystery of existence and the motions of life, and the serendipitous and the bizarre that goes unnoticed. And will we ever again wonder if there is not some deeper magic behind the curtains, not some furtive elves and crafty hobgoblins at work, tinkering between the spaces, not some enchanted explanation for how little things putter along and big things balloon. Father Science gives experiential reason and persuades the rational mind; he puts to the sword all things hoodoo and hocus pocus, and takes by force the imagination to compel it into servitude. Forsooth, a bound imagination is merely one in name.
“Alas! what are you, after all, my written and painted thoughts! Not long ago you were so variegated, young and malicious, so full of thorns and secret spices, that you made me sneeze and laugh — and now? You have already doffed your novelty, and some of you, I fear, are ready to become truths, so immortal do they look, so pathetically honest, so tedious! And was it ever otherwise? What then do we write and paint, we mandarins with Chinese brush, we immortalizers of things which lend themselves to writing, what are we alone capable of painting? Alas, only that which is just about to fade and begins to lose its odour! Alas, only exhausted and departing storms and belated yellow sentiments! Alas, only birds strayed and fatigued by flight, which now let themselves be captured with the hand — with our hand! We immortalize what cannot live and fly much longer, things only which are exhausted and mellow! And it is only for your afternoon, you, my written and painted thoughts, for which alone I have colours, many colours, perhaps, many variegated softenings, and fifty yellows and browns and greens and reds; — but nobody will divine thereby how ye looked in your morning, you sudden sparks and marvels of my solitude, you, my old, beloved — evil thoughts!”- Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil (1886)
