I was afraid that science-fiction buffs and everybody would say

Hear now, O seekers of vision, the words of George Lucas, dream-weaver and maker of myths, who confessed: “I was afraid that science-fiction buffs and everybody would say things like, ‘You know, there’s no sound in outer space.’” In these words lies not only the trembling of a creator before his critics, but also the eternal struggle between the cold precision of fact and the fiery breath of imagination. Lucas feared the voice of reason, yet he chose instead to serve the deeper truth of story—the kind that stirs the heart more powerfully than any fact of physics.

The origin of this utterance lies in the making of Star Wars, Lucas’s great saga. In the silence of the void, where no air carries vibration, the laws of science decree that battles must be mute. Yet Lucas gave us the roar of engines, the hum of lightsabers, the thunder of starships colliding. He knew these sounds were not scientifically correct, yet they were artistically true—they gave voice to the awe and terror of galactic conflict. His fear was that the guardians of science would scorn him, but his hope was that the larger truth of myth would prevail.

This struggle is not new. Consider Homer, who sang of the rage of Achilles and the will of the gods. Did men truly fight for nine years beneath the walls of Troy while Olympians hurled thunderbolts from the sky? Historians may doubt, but the poem endures, for it carries the truth of human pride, wrath, and honor. Like Lucas, Homer chose the power of story over the narrowness of fact, and so his tale lives where mere chronicles fade.

Or look to the frescoes of Michelangelo upon the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. The heavens he painted are not the heavens of astronomy. The finger of God stretching to touch Adam does not belong to the realm of measurable truth, but to the realm of spiritual truth. Science might protest, “It was not so!” Yet art replies, “It is so, in the heart of man.” So too did Lucas bring sound to outer space, not to mislead, but to awaken wonder.

Lucas’s words also teach us of fear itself. Every creator faces the whisper: “What if they mock you? What if they say it is wrong?” Yet the greatest works are born when the creator chooses boldness over hesitation. Lucas feared the critics of science, but he did not bow to them. Instead, he gave the world X-wings screaming through the void, a sound that children and elders alike still carry in their imaginations. In this courage lies the triumph of vision.

Therefore, O listener, the lesson is clear: do not allow the fear of criticism to silence your voice. Facts have their realm, and truth must never be scorned. Yet there is also a higher realm, where myth, art, and imagination speak truths that reason alone cannot reach. Dare, then, to create as Lucas did—not by denying science, but by transcending it, weaving fact into the larger tapestry of wonder.

Practical action lies before you. If you are an artist, do not fear the voice that says, “It cannot be done.” If you are a dreamer, do not silence yourself for the sake of pleasing critics. Build boldly, speak courageously, and create with passion. For in the end, what moves the heart of mankind is not the silence of space, but the sound of imagination made real.

So remember the teaching of George Lucas: though there may be no sound in outer space, there is sound in the soul, and it is that sound which awakens generations. Choose wonder over fear, and your voice will echo longer than the silence of the void.