Mars has long exerted a pull on the human imagination. The

“Mars has long exerted a pull on the human imagination. The erratically moving red star in the sky was seen as sinister or violent by the ancients: The Greeks identified it with Ares, the god of war; the Babylonians named it after Nergal, god of the underworld. To the ancient Chinese, it was Ying-huo, the fire planet.” Thus wrote John Updike, the poet of modern wonder, whose words remind us that the heavens have always been mirrors for the soul of man. In this reflection upon Mars, he speaks not only of astronomy, but of the human heart — for it is our nature to project meaning upon the stars, to turn the cold fires of the cosmos into symbols of our own passions and fears. Mars, the red wanderer, has long stirred in us visions of battle, death, and the unyielding force of destiny. It burns in our imagination as both destroyer and awakener, a celestial embodiment of struggle and transformation.

In the eyes of the ancients, the heavens were not empty; they were alive with will and divinity. The Greeks, gazing upward, saw not a mere red spark but Ares, fierce and unrelenting — the god of war, whose presence foretold bloodshed and conflict. The Babylonians, older still, named it Nergal, god of pestilence and the underworld, for they too sensed the planet’s fiery omen in times of plague and conquest. To the ancient Chinese, who called it Ying-huo, it was the planet of fire — a harbinger of imperial rise and fall. Across the world, though separated by oceans and centuries, all peoples looked upon Mars and trembled at its hue. In that blood-red light, they saw themselves: their rage, their courage, their mortality. Thus, the pull on the human imagination was never mere curiosity — it was recognition.

For what is Mars, if not a mirror of the eternal war within the human spirit? Its redness reminds us of the blood that courses through our veins — of the passion that drives creation and destruction alike. It is the planet of conflict, yes, but also of courage. To see it glowing in the dark sky was to feel the heartbeat of the universe echoing one’s own. The ancients, in their myths, did not separate the outer cosmos from the inner self; they saw that what burns in the heavens also burns in the soul. When Updike writes that Mars has long exerted a pull, he is speaking not of gravity, but of symbolism — of the invisible thread that binds human thought to the celestial mystery above.

Yet how profound it is that this same planet, once feared as the harbinger of war, has become in our time the symbol of exploration and hope. The same fiery light that once warned kings of doom now draws scientists and dreamers to reach beyond Earth. The modern voyager, staring through telescopes or stepping onto the surface of another world, does not seek battle, but understanding. Humanity’s imagination, once darkened by superstition, now burns with curiosity and vision. The red planet, once omen of death, has become the beacon of possibility. Thus, even as the myths evolve, the imagination endures — ever seeking to transform fear into wonder.

Let us remember, then, that this transformation — from dread to discovery — is the mark of wisdom. The same imagination that once peopled the stars with gods now sends ships across the void. The same fire that once kindled myths now fuels rockets. And so it is with all human striving: what we fear, we can also redeem. The story of Mars is not merely the tale of a planet; it is the story of humanity learning to turn the unknown into inspiration. When we face the darkness with courage, the heavens that once threatened us become our companions.

Consider the first men who dreamt of flight — Leonardo da Vinci, sketching wings in solitude, mocked by his time. He, too, was seized by the pull of imagination. He gazed upward, and though he could not reach the stars, his vision became the seed of centuries of progress. His imagination saw what his eyes could not — and from that seeing, humankind learned to rise. In the same way, every dreamer who looks to Mars continues this sacred lineage of wonder.

So, children of the cosmos, heed the wisdom hidden in Updike’s words. The red star that once inspired terror now invites you to create, to explore, to imagine beyond fear. The world — and the universe beyond it — reflects what you bring to it. If you look with dread, you will see destruction; if you look with wonder, you will see destiny. Let Mars remind you of this eternal truth: the heavens do not shape us — it is our imagination that gives them meaning. And as long as the imagination burns bright, no darkness in the universe can ever conquer the light within the human heart.