Good Grief!

A few years after the death of C.S.Lewis, Owen Barfield, one of Lewis's long-time and closest friends, tried  to describe the change that went over his friend in the 1930s.  Barfield noted that Lewis had adopted some kind of posture, that Lewis had ceased to write in the mode of "I say this" but rather in the mode of "This is the sort of thing a man might say."  This observation has long perplexed me, as in my reading Lewis (predominately his fiction and literary essays, not the apologetics) I've never really noticed this before. But I have now, in the reading of A Grief Observed, which (supposedly) contains the notes from four of C.S. Lewis's notebooks written right after the death of his wife in 1960.  (The book was published under a pseudonym in 1961.)  Though there are passages of apparent actual grief in this book, there are also a lot of passages that feel like Lewis is posturing, that the exercise basically is Lewis setting up straw men arguments about the absences or cruelty of God in order to wriggle around them later. This makes the whole book (which fortunately is short) an essay in what Lewis calls "rhetorical chicanery."  I cannot imagine anyone finding anything of worth in these rantings unless one comes to them already as a Christian seeking confirmation of one's pre-existing superstitions.  This edition has an additional essay on Lewis by Chad Walsh, which is far superior (but with occasional lapses) to Lewis's own writing in this slim book.

Unsurprised by History

At least I knew going into the reading of C.S. Lewis's Surprised by Joy: The Shape of My Early Life (1956) that the earlier part of the book was going to be a lot more interesting than the later part.  Even the blurb on the cover gives away the fact that the book tells of Lewis's "spiritual journey that led him from the Christianity of his early youth into atheism and then back to Christianity." One wonders why a smart lad who had progressed to the putting away of childish things like religion, should revert back to the superstitions of his early youth.  It turns out the reasons are mostly all psychological  Lewis's mother had died when he was nine.  And after studying at Oxford, he took a tutorial post and was then elected a fellow in 1925. He found that his friends were turning into Christians (of various sorts) and all his fellow dons were Christian, and obviously a lot of the medieval materials he studied related to Christianity. So after his father died in 1929, both Lewis and his only sibling, a brother, gravitated pretty quickly back towards Christianity.  Lewis seems also to have been affected by the curious affair the had carried out with a married woman twenty-five years his senior, since around 1919, which he had tried to keep secret from his father, and which Lewis only hints at in his memoir ("I must warn the reader that one huge and complex episode will be omitted"). Lewis would never talk about this to any of his bewildered friends, or even explain it to his brother. So when Lewis describes himself  at the time of his conversion as "the most dejected and reluctant of all converts in England" one simply can't believe it.  Lewis rushed back to his youthful suckling on the teat of Christ to restore an old order to his life. This leaves a sense of tragedy.  Just think of what Lewis might have written if he stayed the course with his logical rejection of theism in all its aspects.  Instead of brilliant work we got stuck with loads of proselytizing crap.

I picked up Christopher Morley's History of an Autumn (1938) because I liked the title.  The book itself doesn't amount to much. Basically, it's Morley's notes about the approach of the Second World War. There are some occasional insights, and a few hints at explanations of lost attitudes, but for the most part this is thin gruel. Not unpleasant, and fortunately in small supply.

A Visit to Narnia

I read two or three of the seven Narnia books when I was a young teenager.  I didn’t think much of them, but over the years I have occasionally felt that I was doing a disservice by not reading them all. So . . .  I took a vacation in Narnia, and at last have read all seven books.  I hope never to visit Narnia again.

I read the seven in the order of publication, not the stupid chronological order that the publisher has imposed upon them since the 1990s, which places the usual sixth volume, The Magician’s Nephew, as the first, thereby giving explanations for later plot developments before they could mean anything to the reader.

The main problem with the Narnia books is that they are filled with annoying children and various dated stereotypes.  These include gender roles as well as racial stereotypes, like the Arab-based Calormenes (who use scimitars, and Lewis tells us, “smell of garlic and onions” as if that’s a bad thing).  Modern education is mocked in The Silver Chair (Experiment House is, horror of horrors, co-educational, and Bibles are not encouraged there, as if it is a bad thing to discourage religious superstition). “Advanced” people are sarcastically called vegetarians, non-smokers, and teetotalers (what’s wrong with any of those qualities?). Most of these problems are expressed subtly, but Lewis bangs you over the head with Aslan, his Christ-figure who, shucks, does good things for only his friends who believe in him, but lets all those who don’t know his selfish “wisdom” fend for themselves; they receive deserved punishments.  Lucy is the dimmest of all the children in the series, as she is frequently mooning and yawping about Aslan. Susan, on the other hand, is probably the most sensible character to have visited Narnia, for she is no longer welcome there after she has discovered lipstick (i.e., sex appeal, and presumably sex).  Is this the kind of nonsense that “grown-ups” think children should read?  I don’t.  But C.S. Lewis does occasionally wander off track from his main proselytizing role, such as with the frequent kisses that young King Tirion bestows on his male unicorn named Jewel.  Does this reference homosexuality or bestiality, or both?  Alas, even such a reading does little to make Narnia palatable. Pauline Baynes's delightful illustrations, however, do raise interest in the series, but they are like the sugar coating on a poison pill, designed to get a someone to swallow something otherwise very unpleasant.