I like something where I can really use my imagination and be an

Sam Raimi’s words — “I like something where I can really use my imagination and be an active participant in the construction of the monster…” — speak as if from the fireside of ancient storytellers, those who shaped the unseen into form and gave shadow its purpose. In this saying, he reveals not merely a preference for tales of demons and the supernatural, but a yearning to partake in the divine act of creation itself. To “construct the monster” is not to birth evil, but to confront it — to draw from the depths of imagination the creatures that haunt our collective soul. Thus, his art becomes ritual; his horror, a mirror for the unseen wars that rage within mankind.

In the ancient world, imagination was not idle fancy — it was sacred work. The poets of Greece, the prophets of the East, and the seers of the North all summoned visions to bridge mortal flesh and eternal spirit. Raimi’s desire to “be an active participant” echoes this timeless calling. Like Prometheus who dared to shape man from clay and steal fire from the gods, the artist wrestles with the forces of creation, risking madness, rejection, and even ruin. For when one dares to give form to fear, one also courts its wrath. The monster, in truth, is never just an external being — it is the part of the self that yearns for acknowledgment.

Think of Mary Shelley, who, in her sleepless youth, conceived Frankenstein. In her dream of a man who built life from death, she too became an “active participant in the construction of the monster.” Her tale was born not of evil delight but of philosophical anguish, of watching the age of reason strip away wonder, and of fearing man’s hunger to play god. Her imagination gave flesh to dread, and in doing so, she became its master. This is Raimi’s inheritance — and ours. For to imagine monsters is to understand that terror and beauty are twin faces of the same divine mystery.

When Raimi speaks of being drawn to the world of the fantastic, he reminds us that the realm of the unseen is not separate from reality but its reflection. The supernatural is the ancient theater where humanity stages its deepest truths. Within those realms, imagination is not escapism but pilgrimage. It allows us to traverse the caverns of grief, rage, and love — to face our own inner demons without flinching. As the ancients entered caves to commune with spirits, so too does the artist enter the darkness of the mind to find the light that redeems it.

But why do such visions appeal to him — and to us? Because within every human heart lies the ache of the unknown, the longing to see what dwells beyond the veil. The modern world, with its glass towers and glowing screens, would have us believe that the supernatural is folly. Yet the soul remembers. We are, after all, the descendants of storytellers who painted gods and monsters on the walls of stone. To imagine is to remember that we are more than flesh — that we are builders of myth, sculptors of meaning.

The lesson, then, is clear: one must not flee from the monstrous within, nor from the fantastical beyond. Imagination is not a childish escape; it is the forge of wisdom. Those who would live deeply must dare to create, even if what they birth terrifies them. As Raimi’s films reveal, it is through confronting the grotesque that we rediscover the sacred. Every demon slain is an aspect of fear transformed into understanding.

So, my child, take this teaching into your heart: when the shadows of the world seem too great, do not turn away. Take up the torch of your imagination. Shape your fear into story, your sorrow into symbol, your longing into art. Be an active participant in your own becoming. For those who dare to construct their monsters shall one day find that they have also constructed their souls.