Imagination is humans’ gift and curse, conceiving honor and horror, engendering love and loathing. Its refusal to be harnessed by the probable gives it power – and magnifies its peril.

The tendency – whether talent or debility – seems innate. A dreamy child may have a practical sibling. Imagination kindles ecstasy – oh, for the wonders that await! – and compounds dissatisfaction – why am I stuck here now? It seems not to correlate with brainpower. Some geniuses see only facts, many fools are fantasists.

Imagination can cripple concentration. In college I envisioned a career as a classical organist. I’d carry my scores to the practice room and set to work. I’d have reserved the room for two hours. The first thirty minutes I was all diligence, wrestling execution. Ninety minutes later, when my time was up, I’d wake startled as if from a dream. Instead of practicing I’d been imagining, improvising, daydreaming. My professor would not be pleased.

Imagination and comprehension begin with the same facts, which comprehension masters and imagination rearranges. The two temperaments may irk each other, literalists exasperating dreamers with their insistence on proof.

Neither penchant is preferable. The world – and each of us – benefits from both. Ambition is visionary – but stargazers stumble into ditches. To achieve a better tomorrow one must imagine it, but a vision blind to facts can only fail. “Begin from where you are,” said the poet, “or you are lost.”

Today’s America is bitterly divided between factualists and fantasists. I’m a partisan here, passionately committed to the party of facts. Our opponents, from my perspective, are living in la-la land, dismissing data they dislike and ratcheting their rage with self-serving nonsense. No doubt they’d say the same about me: but that our claims are similar does not make them equal. I am – more than willing – eager to hear their arguments, examine their evidence, and concede their points if they make any. I’m unafraid to be wrong. They defend every assertion with fulminous fanaticism and when challenged impugn a critic’s character. Trump – have you noticed? – never refutes a fact but insults its asserter. He seeks to destroy, not debate. This makes conversation impossible. Either you concede, helpless, or head for the hills.

I imagine for a living. Any missive begins with what if, any sentence with noodling about its lilt. I must make new not to bore you. I’ve always been an improviser, then and now.

I imagine – but never knowingly make things up. I hate lies and liars: they bewilder, waste time, and corrode trust. While I often get things wrong, sometimes ludicrously, I strive to get them right. “The whole truth” is a legal fiction: witnesses should be asked if they’ll tilt in truth’s direction.

“We may take Fancy for a companion,” observed the ever-imaginative, ever-sensible Dr. Johnson, “but must follow Reason as our guide.” Imagination elevates – nations no less than persons: it is healthful to hanker to be that “shining city upon a hill.” We need Reason, though, to keep us sane. Present headlines make me fear America’s losing its mind – which would lead to the wreck of all.