I discovered that my imagination came alive when I moved away

“I discovered that my imagination came alive when I moved away from the immediate world around me.” Thus spoke Kazuo Ishiguro, the quiet master of memory and dream, whose words carry the fragrance of both exile and revelation. In this reflection lies a truth profound and tender: that sometimes the soul must journey away from the visible world to discover the invisible one within. The imagination, like a seed, does not always bloom in the soil of the familiar—it needs distance, silence, and the strange air of elsewhere to awaken its full power. When Ishiguro speaks of moving away from the immediate world, he speaks of stepping beyond habit, beyond noise, beyond the constant pressure of what is near, so that the inner world—the realm of vision, creation, and truth—may rise unclouded.

In the long history of the human spirit, this discovery has been made again and again. The prophets of old, the poets, the dreamers—all found that clarity is born in distance. Moses went into the desert to hear the voice of God. The Buddha sat beneath the tree, leaving behind the palace and its endless distractions. Dante, cast from his homeland, wandered through the spiritual realms of heaven and hell within his mind. Their outward separation from the world became an inward connection to something far greater. So too with Ishiguro: by turning away from the immediacy of life—its chatter, its demand for attention—he opened the gates to a realm where the imagination breathes freely.

For the immediate world, though beautiful, is also binding. It entangles us in the web of the urgent and the ordinary. The mind, ever fed by constant noise, forgets how to listen. The eyes, filled with the familiar, forget how to see. But when one steps aside—when one dares to withdraw into silence—the imagination stirs like a sleeping god. It begins to weave, to question, to create. In absence, presence is felt more deeply; in solitude, the voice of truth is heard more clearly. Thus, to move away is not to escape, but to awaken.

Consider the story of Vincent van Gogh, who left the bustling cities of Europe to wander the quiet fields of Arles. There, away from the world’s applause and judgment, his imagination erupted in color. He painted not what he saw, but what he felt—the trembling soul of the stars, the fevered pulse of sunflowers, the sorrow of the human heart. Distance freed his vision. Had he remained in the comfort of the known, he might never have glimpsed the infinite within the ordinary. His solitude, like Ishiguro’s metaphorical withdrawal, was not emptiness but transformation—the rediscovery of the world through the lens of the inner eye.

O listener, understand this well: there are two kinds of seeing. One belongs to the eyes, and the other to the imagination. The first perceives the world as it is; the second reveals the world as it could be. But the second requires space—it requires that the clamor of life be softened so that the whispers of creation may be heard. To live too deeply in the immediate is to be imprisoned by it; to step back is to see the whole tapestry. Ishiguro’s words are a call to that retreat—not a retreat of fear, but of vision, so that we might return with hearts renewed and sight made sacred.

Even in our modern age, when the world presses upon us through glowing screens and endless noise, this wisdom endures. Imagination is not found in distraction, but in stillness. The artist, the thinker, the seeker—all must learn to move away, if only for a time, from the crowd’s endless murmur. To look inward is not to turn away from life, but to turn toward its deepest currents. It is there, in the quiet depths, that the mind finds its strength and the soul remembers its song.

So let this be your teaching: if your imagination feels dim, if your heart feels bound by routine and repetition, step away. Walk into silence, even if it is only for a breath. Seek solitude not as loneliness, but as sanctuary. Read not only with your eyes, but with your spirit. Let distance give birth to vision, and let vision guide you back to the world with new eyes. For when you return, you will see that nothing has changed—and yet, everything has been transformed. The imagination, once awakened, does not abandon the world; it illumines it. And in that illumination, life itself becomes art.