By: Jennifer Richardson Holt
I have a confession to make. I will say that if you know me even the most moderate amount you may well already be aware of what I am about to admit. What I’m about to tell you about is probably best described as a relation of a love affair that I have had since I was roughly five or six years old. It isn’t a sordid entanglement so if that’s the content you were hoping for I am sorry to disappoint and let you know that your hopes are likely far, far too high for any autobiographical insights I may lend. The most objectionable quality of my adoration is probably that it is quite possibly in amounts that would lean to unhealthy levels. I don’t think I am quite to obsession but then again, I may well be biased in analyzing my own fascinations. From humble beginnings of a fairytale being read to me as a child to extensive study of texts that sometimes proved massively in depth for my most succinctly adult thought processes there has been one author whose thoughts that I seem to crave no matter their medium or substance. I am not sure that it will particularly intrigue anyone to learn of this endearment but its on my mind and when the passion is as prevalent as it is about the subject at hand, I can’t help it. I will apologize in advance if this is me blubbering odes of affection. I won’t say that he doesn’t deserve it though. From our first introduction when I was very young, Clive Staples, better known as C. S., Lewis has captured my heart and imagination.
As a child with, to put it mildly, a vivid imagination, once I met with the fantasy of Mr. Lewis my adoration was bound to happen. I wonder how many people began what they thought was a simple children’s tale and were encompassed by a new unexpectedly engrossing realm. How many casual readers were suddenly consumed by characters and creatures that transformed them from someone reading to pass the time to someone who would rather be in Narnia than whatever piece of the world that was their true home? Somehow Lewis managed to pluck at every string of the heart, for me at least and more likely a large portion of the reading world.
When a child his fantastical adventures gave me everything my heart desired. There were animals, not just your average badger and beaver but also fauns and centaurs all of which moved about seamlessly in his worlds all talking and having tea. Woodland creatures speaking is something, I feel somewhat safe in saying, that every child and possibly many adults really and truly want to be the case. I daresay at one time or another how many of us have imagined the conversations of the inhabitants of a forest. And Lewis not only gave us the animals we can easily see in our minds eye but also those of myth and legend that only added to the fantastical appeal of the tales.
To contribute even more to the charm, he made his protagonists children. It was these average human children which the whole world he created lauded as the most magnificent beings. In a world of magic and enchantment it was simple boys and girls with their average strengths and weaknesses and even sibling rivalries that were the heroes and heroines. These examples of the ordinary proved to be anything but. How can a reader not be enamored when they are presented with the idea that they have all the potential to be kings and queens no matter how humble their origins?
I suppose one thing I love most about The Chronicles of Narnia, to continue to focus on this glorious piece of literature, is that though it is fiction for the young it is most assuredly not only the young that can appreciate the quality of the story. The man himself said, “A children’s story that can only be enjoyed by children is not a good children’s story in the slightest.” He so deeply understood this. He made these works appeal to any and everyone. He knew that though the young mind embraces the adventure of magical worlds the fact did not escape him that adults often used such tales to make our reality more easily endured. We longed for these stories not for the discovery and exciting exploits of the more innocent young minds but for the departure from the real world that for us is so often beset with stress and burden. He knew this and said, “No book is really worth reding at the age of ten which is not equally—and often far more—worth reading at the age of fifty and beyond.” Even with a specific audience, his writing spread its allure to everyone like a blanketing spell.
I promise I won’t continue to quote my beloved Clive at you, (I call him Clive as if we were friends because in my mind somehow, we are; or kindred spirits at the very least even without his knowledge or consent of our bond) but I just wanted to talk about how amazing it is that his mind knew what we wanted and even needed. I can’t even begin to touch on what he has to offer if fiction was not your glass of port. He loved a good port hence that insertion. He presented depth of knowledge on so many weighty topics, even Christian apologetics, that was unimaginably deep however somehow, he had a way of almost enchanting words to arrange themselves in such a way that their profound meaning is conveyed as gently as springtime breeze. You understand what he is saying because he says it in a way that your mind simply absorbs it without having to analyze and deconstruct it. Somehow Lewis makes consuming his work, even in its most complex form as simple as eating. And I have to say befitting of that metaphor, most people that do so are certainly left hungering for more.
Then again, all this praise I like to lavish on Clive (or actually Jack to use the nickname he was most familiar with) may just be my own personal tastes. I have to say though, the more I learn about him as a person the fonder of him I grow. He seems to be the type of soul that you would just want to be around and want to truly intimately know. To know he was a writer of unparalleled proportions who could compose beautiful works on everything from space adventures to grief and immortality boggles my mind to levels upon which, well, probably only someone with a mind like his could extrapolate. I know he captured my imagination as a child and the older I’ve become the more I’ve read, and I have yet to be disappointed.
So, if you haven’t explored the works of C. S. Lewis then I wholeheartedly implore you to do so. I feel rather certain in saying you could find something you would enjoy. While I cannot possibly hope to measure even close to him, if even half of my written word can garner a mere fraction of the enthusiasm that all of his works have done for me, then I will have been more successful than I could ever possibly fathom.
Prose and Possibilities 