Our Real Book

Sooo... last entry? Neato. Short and sweet to wrap things up, then.

I would have to disagree with Lewis' notion that Till We Have Faces is his greatest work. I thought Perelanda and even the Narnia series were more rich in extraordinary thoughts. Nevertheless, the novel still had a number of wonderful topics and ideas that I found very intriguing.

I thought that Till We Have Faces really went out with a bang. I kept thinking "Why wasn't the rest of the novel this good?" while reading it. I thought the part where Orual read her real book of complaints against the Gods both very intriguing and close to home. It's very easy to believe that our frustrations with God to be altruistic and concerned about the good of others when really they're almost entirely out of selfishness. It takes a truly humble person to really admit the source of his or her feelings. Hopefully I can learn that lesson now and not be faced with an eventual shameful realization like Orual had.

Irregular Forsakenness

I hope to add on to this post later, but I'll do what I can now.

As I read "A Grief Observed," I sometimes found Lewis' feelings of forsakenness (I don't think it's a word, but you know what I mean) to be, at points, disconcertingly similar to certain episodes in my life. The door-slamming, bolting and double bolting analogy is a fitting one. At other instances, however, I've feel more as what the author of the forward described as her experience in times of great grief, that of comfort, consolation, and irrefutable Presence. I have often wanted to know why some difficulties seem to be solo affairs and others hardly begin before God arrives with the desired balm. I'm sure that part of the reason why is simply that God knows what we need and when, but I still wonder why some trials require one sort of therapy and others a treatment regimen of a different variety.

Too Short to Matter?

I began thinking about the topic of this post after a discussion I had with some members of the class who arrived early. We were talking about a sentiment that the author of the forward of A Grief Observed shared that essentially stated she didn't feel that the Lewis' relationship had lasted long enough to really matter. In her view, not enough time had passed in order for Jack to be able to justify how he felt. Those of us in class didn’t agree with her, of course, but it made me wonder why she felt as she did.

Why, according to some people, are relationships validated only after the passing of much time (though how much is necessary is harder to determine)? Does having only a short time with someone instantly disqualify the relationship from having incredible meaning?  Truthfully, I believe that the answer is more elusive than a simple yes or no. On one hand, each of us is probably familiar with the (typically young) individual who thinks he or she has found “the one” after a chance meeting that spawned a couple of dates or even only hang outs. On the other, I both know through personal experience and friends’ statements that, on occasion, a relationship that only lasted for a comparative moment has tremendously influenced the rest of my/her/his life.

I suppose that the core of the issue is a question: Are time and love (or maybe relationships in particular) inseparably connected? In continuance of my increasingly more regular form, I have to leave the question unanswered because I yet to figure out the solution.

What Is the Connection?

Ever since I first read The Magician's Nephew, I have wondered about the city Charn where Jadis the witch came from. Jadis had annihilated all of the life on the planet after a bitter civil war that she was about to lose. For lack of time (surprise surprise), I won't repeat the history that Jadis provides, particularly since anyone reading this will likely have read the book. What I wonder about is how the history of Charn relates to the history of Earth. I don't see any strong parallels between Charn and the War in Heaven, aside from the loose civil war connection.

As of the present moment, I haven't many answers to this question of correlation between the story and reality. I'm going to have to give it the consideration it deserves and, hopefully, I'll be able to determine what symbols Lewis was embedding into the story.

Shorter Than I Would Like...

So I'm really short on time right now so this post will be much shorter than I would like it to be. I am particularly disgruntled because this post concerns a scene that I have thought about over and over again. Nevertheless, I don't think I have yet grasped what Lewis intended by it. The episode I am referring to is immediately after Peter slays Maugrim/Fenris Wolf and Aslan instructs him to clean his sword and to always do so after combat.

I have a few notions about what Aslan/Lewis meant on a deeper level, but I'm not convinced that any of them are correct. Not one seems to have that "last piece of the puzzle" feel to it. I'm hoping that someday the full truth suddenly hits me or is suggested to me by someone else. Until then, I suppose I'll have to live with the gaping hole of the incomplete, yet acknowledged, lesson.

On the Fall of Tor and Tinidril

Just to warn you, dear reader, from the beginning, this post will be more geared toward asking questions rather than offering my thoughts. Having said that, I did find Perelanda to be filled with beautiful imagery, marvellous characters, and fantastic ideas. If the work was not meant to be such an obvious analogue to the Fall of Man on Earth, its hinting toward the Adam and Eve account would have been heavy handed, to say the least. However, Lewis successfully walked the fine line he set out for himself, and pulled it off smartly.

Now on to the questions. Obviously, I do not expect an answer to these questions, considering the unfortunate complication that the author is no longer living. I cannot see why that should nonetheless stop me from asking them.

What did Lewis believe was the purpose of the Fall? Did he consider it necessary? What would he have suggested would have happened if it had not occurred? Did he reject the idea that the two first humans could not have born children without the Fall occurring? Where did he believe the adversary came from? What did he think of Eve and her choice? What about Adam and his? Did he think that the resurrection simply restores the soul and body to the state like unto those that our first parents possessed before the Fall?

I'm sure that he has answers to some of these recorded in other works in a fair amount of detail. Now it's my job to go find them.

Reading Old Books

Ah, old books. Truth be told, if a book is initially inviting and intensely riveting, it really doesn't concern me when it was published. However, I think Clive Staples (did anyone ever call him either of those names?) makes an excellent point in "On the Reading of Old Books" that we should be mindful to intersperse our enjoyment of modern novels with those published in an earlier time. His reasoning is, at least in part, that there are ideas and elements in societies that change with the passing of time, and to think that our own ideas and elements are the best that could possibly exist would be just as foolish as if the Greeks or the Romans thought the same thing. Thus acknowledging that our modern philosophies are imperfect, we would then do well to discover what superior gems may be found from past cultures (since those from the future are sadly unavailable) so we might thereby be further enlightened.

I think this is both an excellent observation and a valuable piece of advice.Nevertheless, I actually think it could be taken further. I believe that time is not the only barrier that separates individuals from new philosophies. Divides cultural, political, and lingual also do a fine job splitting people, and consequently ideas, apart. Even though I would do well to heed my own advice, many great things can be learned from our contemporaries in other lands and of other languages. In fact, I think Lewis' suggestion of switching off from old and new books could benefit from the insertion of foreign works into the rotation as well.

A Little Off Topic

Alright, so this is admittedly a tangent based on the readings for this week, specifically from the first paragraph of "Myth Became Fact." Unfortunately I'm under a time crunch so I won't be able to give the topic even the smallest bit of attention it deserves. Scratching the surface it is, then.

When Lewis was beginning his essay, he introduced the accusation levelled by his friend Cornelius that original Christianity is little, if anything, like modern day Christianity. This struck me as being very similar to a few works I've been reading lately that have discussed how Mormonism in Joseph Smith's time differed from current Mormonism. While I do not think the ramifications of the suggestions are even close to the same (in Mormonism's case, the suggestion does not disprove the validity of the religion), there is definitely some value in discussing what differences exist and why the differences came to be.

I wish that I had the time to pick apart the assertions I've read, but again, time does not allow for it. Hopefully there will be an opportunity to do so in the future.

On a Personal Note

I've been kicking the topic of this post around, trying to decide whether I actually wanted to record it here. However, I finally decided that part of the ideal learning experience involves sharing parts of yourself that you might prefer to leave untouched. The issue in question concerns why Lewis felt relieved when he initially apostatized from Christianity, specifically how he hated going to bed each evening because he would inevitably have to attend to what he thought were mandatory obligations in prayer. These obligations would extend the lengths of his prayers to unreasonably long durations, thus provoking the aforementioned misery about attending to them.

I honestly was astounded to hear him discuss this topic, mainly because I've found that I have been struggling with something very similar. What I had, until reading Lewis' account, been demanding of myself every night also made me avoid going to bed, which combined with the time requirement to complete my obligations, had resulted in perpetual sleep deprivation. I found myself wishing to avoid my communion with Heavenly Father simply because of how long it took, Furthermore, my prayers got to the point where they did not feel like conversations and instead felt like repetitions that were sincere, but were nonetheless repetitions.

Thankfully, Lewis' record prompted me to recognize that I was not conducting myself as I should be, and should thus cut down on the number of items that I need to pray about every day. Although I'm still working at improving my prayers, I have noticed progress and have discovered that I do not dread starting them anymore.

The False Summit

While I don't lament not having to write multiple-page reflections on our readings every week, I do feel like I never quite do the subjects I approach in these posts justice. I feel like every topic deserves its own essay or chapter in a book, but I suppose men and women more capable than I probably have given these subjects a proper treatment elsewhere. But now to return to Lewis...

While reflecting on some of the passages in Miracles, particularly in chapter 7, I came face-to-face with something that bothers me more and more the older I get. That is, that while many people are arrogant concerning themselves, perhaps even more are arrogant towards mankind in general. To talk with some of my associates, you'd think that humanity had discovered all there was to discover and stood at the apex of understanding, comprehending the entire universe complete. Logically, then (according to some), the miracles we hear about surely must be falsehoods because they do not concur with the ironclad proofs of our perfect grasp of science! 

This line of thinking usually lasts until the person is confronted with something inexplicable, at which point he or she will often concede that humans don't, of course, understand everything, but rather everything except for this one particular anomaly. Give them five years and of course it will all make sense then. 

I think it would all be rather humorous if it wasn't so corrosive to the spirits of those who feel this way. Instead, it's just pitiful to watch individuals stand upon small piles of pebbles in the foothills and proclaim that they stand upon the highest peak.

A Divorce of Ideas

It's not often that I find myself disagreeing with Lewis on a matter that isn't doctrine. However, I confess that I do not see eye-to-eye with him on some of his social views regarding the division of responsibilities in marriage. There are some particular points that I believe, if taken as general ideas and not specific directives as he states, could provide a valuable framework to divvying up areas of authority or presidency in a marriage. For doesn't Lewis have a point that, when a difference of opinion in an area that affects both partners arises and neither of them can agree with the other, one must win out if a compromise cannot be reached? I have seen the arrangement of designated areas of authority between spouses practiced to great success. For instance, the wife was the end authority on all matters inside the home, whereas the husband was ultimately in charge of decisions concerning the exterior and grounds. Thus, when they had a disagreement about what to do in a certain area in or around the home, there was not any confusion about who had the "say" if they failed to come to a consensus.

If Lewis had done as was his custom and gave general counsel based on principles rather than specifics, I believe most readers would be able to see where he was coming from. I can't help but wonder, however, if his feelings shifted after he personally experienced what he had given advice for in marriage.

The Tragic Tragedian

This entry was inspired by an account in The Great Divorce. Near the conclusion of the novel, the ghost through whose eyes and ears we experience the grandeurs and terrors of Heaven-Hell (depending on your perspective) observes a particularly bizarre exchange between an unfathomably resplendent angel, Sarah, and her (former?) husband, Frank. However, the husband's person has been split into a dwarfed figure (his real soul) and an actor-spokesman, specifically described as a tragedian. The tragedian holds the man's dwarfed soul on a chain. The conversation is far too long to relate or do justice summarizing, so I will have to refer any interested readers to the book itself.

For the purposes of this journal, what I found so interesting here was not so much what was exchanged verbally in the conversation (although it does provide crucial context), but rather the symbolism of Frank's split form. The tragedian was not a genuine part of the man's soul, but was a self-absorbed creation who he set up to try to obtain power by taking advantage of others' compassion and love. The tragedian was a false character, an image who had no real substance to him. However, by Frank refusing to let go of him, to let go of his effort to exert power through pity, he could not obtain joy. He was swallowed up until the tragedian was all that was visibly left, and thus became a partaker of what I believe is a much worse kind of misery than he was trying to instil in others.

To me, the message is that whenever we play the martyr or put on a false performance to take advantage of the goodness of another, we are putting forth an image of a pitiful creature that does not actually exist. And, if not controlled, that creature threatens to swallow our selves into it.

Do What Makes You Happy? Screwtape Has Other Ideas

I've decided that what I am most fond of in Jack's writing is how he could point out a feeling, characteristic, or behavior that is so very universal throughout the human race but yet we still don't realize that it even exists at all until he points it out. I came to appreciate this afresh when I was reading the account in The Screwtape Letters wherein Screwtape advises Wormwood not to try to influence his "patient" to give in to temptation and do things he ought not, but rather instead to influence him to whittle away his time doing things that really don't do much for him at all. For instance, spending all night just staring into the fire while not doing or thinking anything productive or therapeutic.

Until I read this passage, I hadn't realized that this was a common behavior of humans. I simply figured I was among a small group of time-wasters who happen to be prone to being busily engaged about doing many things and, after its all done, really accomplishing nothing. Little did I know it was a more widespread problem and that I wasn't terribly odd at all (well, at least in this respect).

It makes me wonder how many other self-labeled "oddities" that make up my person really aren't that odd after all.

I Wish I Knew Jack

Ever since I really read my very first C.S. Lewis book as an adult, I have found it a bit tragic that I was born just a tiny bit too late and could never get the chance to meet the man before his death. It may seem a bit ridiculous, but I don't have a problem with never meeting authors that lived centuries ago yet do feel almost cheated that I missed "Jack" by just a handful of decades. Woe is me, but if not meeting Mr. Lewis is what distresses me the most, I suppose I have a lot more to be thankful for than to complain about!

It also happens that The Screwtape Letters was my first real exposure to Jack's writings. My mother did read the Chronicles of Narnia to my brothers and me when we were young, but I don't consider those experiences to be my genuine first exposure to his works.

I am excited to be able to contemplate the profound yet so plainly stated truths embedded in the pages of this short masterpiece. I consider it a privilege to do so with that work, as well as many others, in the soon-to-be-written posts on this page. I will endeavor to make them interesting for the millions of people I like to pretend will be interested in my musings, which musings I will keep convincing myself are a tiny bit profound.