Spoiler Warning: Do not read this post if you have yet to complete Descent Into Hell and would prefer not to know what happens before you have finished reading it - unless, of course (which is hopefully not the case) you have no intention of finishing it or reading it to begin with . . .

Anyway, I find something about the character of Wentworth to be particularly interesting. (Well, perhaps it is not so much his “character” that is interesting as much as how Charles Williams portrays certain aspects of Wentworth's falling; thus, in that sense, it would be Williams' depiction of Wentworth that I find intriguing.)

Regardless, during Wentworth's descent*, there seems to be this idea that he could have made certain choices – even small choices – which may have been, or led to, his salvation. What struck me was that some of these choices were (seemingly) so random, such as the choice of the uniform of the Guard (Ch. VIII, pg. 143-145).

Yet, there was one choice that seemed somewhat strange to me: “He hated Aston Moffatt. Hate still lived in him a little, and hate might almost have saved him, though nothing else could, had he hated with a scholar's hate” (Ch. XII, pg. 214). Having a feeling of scholarly hatred might have been his salvation, but “He did not (have “a scholar's hate”); his hate and his grudge were personal and obscene” (214).

Yet, how is having scholarly hatred any different from a personal hatred? Both are “hate,” and we would generally conceive neither of these kinds of hatred to be very good. I understand the concept that having a kind of hatred that goes beyond the self might take one (at least for a time) outside one' own narcissism. I am just having a little difficulty knowing how this would appear different – other than an image of a boiling, or cancerous hatred gnawing away at one' inside (personal), versus . . . I don't know . . . two scholars tossing words back and forth (scholarly)? But that may be done without hatred or animosity on their part . . .

*I used the word “falling” earlier, but I am not convinced that that was the most appropriate term for what we are discussing. “Falling” generally seems to imply such a sudden act that could almost be taken as involuntary: i.e. you slipped and fell; that was not your choice. “Descent” usually depicts something much slower, and with more of an implication that the action is done as a result of one's own decisions. You may “descend” the stairs, but would you like to “fall” down the stairs? I can assure you from my own experience that descending is so much easier that it may almost occur unnoticed; falling is not advisable . . . but it is, most definitely, noticeable – unless you wind up with a concussion (which, even then, would probably only alleviate any pain temporarily).

In “Out of the Silent Planet” Ransom is wandering across Malacandra, totally lost (whatever the word “lost” may mean when one knows nothing about the planet, I am not sure), and avoiding the fate that both men and sorns would give to him. Interestingly, Ransom keeps having some sort of delusion wherein he seems to think of himself as being multiple people.

At first, this idea came up only once, and it is said that “he checked himself on the point of saying, 'We'll stick to one another'” (chapter 8, pg. 49 of my edition). Yet, later this event becomes more recurrent, and there is little Ransom can do to fight its taking hold over his sanity. Thus, even as Ransom is falling asleep by a warm Malacandrian stream, he is telling himself “We'll look after you, Ransom . . . we'll stick together, old man . . .” (chapter 8, pg. 51). By the next day, “The delusions recurred every few minutes as long as this stage of his journey lasted . . .” (chapter 9, pg. 53).

What I am curious about, is what happened to this delusion. In other words, what became of it, and where did it go? And, furthermore, was there any purpose to his having this “delusion” in the first place?

True, Ransom's experiences on Malacandra could be blamed for only temporarily wrecking havoc with his mind, and thus returning his mind to “normal” when he has something else to think of besides himself (the hrossa, perhaps?). But the fact that his speaking to himself is featured so prevalently for a few partial chapters (the end of 8 and beginning of 9), and then that nothing further seems to be said about the subject seems a bit strange to me.

(Unless, of course, I am completely inventing something in my mind . . . but I really do not remember anything else being said of this “delusion” of his.) Any ideas?

Does anyone else find the character Mrs. Sammile creepy?

When she first showed up in the garden with Paulline and her Grandmother I thought she was only just strange. However, in chapter 6, near the end when she mysteriously shows up again. She acts more than strange, almost like there is something dangerous about her, but I'm not sure. This book is more than a little odd anyway. This is what I mean when I cast accusations against Mrs. Sammile for creepiness.

"The other murmured: 'Happy, rich. Insatiate, yet satisfied. How delicious everything would be! I could tell you tales that would shut everything but yourself out. Wouldn't you like to be happy? If there's anything that worries you, I can shut it away from you. Think what you might be missing.' "

But it doesn't end there, Mrs. Sammile goes on to promise even more:

" If you will come with me, I can fill you, fill your body with any sense you choose. I cam make you feel whatever you'd choose to be. I can give you certainty of joy for every moment of life. Secretly, secretly; no other soul--no other living soul."

It seems to me that Mrs. Sammile is recruiting for something terrible, something evil if she can promise and gurantee such things. Nothing and no one can give someone "certainty of joy" besides God and I have a sinking suspicion that He's not the one she's working for....if she's working for anyone. What does she mean by "no other living soul" can know ? Perhaps I'm looking to hard at it, but I think not. Does anyone else find her words unnerving and that her character is up to no good? I'd love to read everyone's thoughts on this.

I just found an article online which I thought was interesting, and, given our recent discussion of the “Westonian” idea of living on other planets and thereby preserving the human species, I thought it might be something some of you might be curious about as well. The article was contained in the scientific subsection of MSN.com, so it should be from a fairly legitimate source.

The following quote sums up the article's main point:

“Researchers say pictures from a Mars orbiter show holes the size of football fields that may be the entrances to subterranean caverns. If the claims prove to be true, such caves would be prime targets in the search for extraterrestrial life and prime real estate for future human settlements.”

It seems that the idea espoused by Weston is still being propagated . . .

You can find the full article at http://cosmiclog.msnbc.msn.com/archive/2007/03/19/94112.aspx . Sadly, it does not seem to be as full a report as one might like, but I believe it gives enough information to be entertaining, nonetheless.

In addition, there seems to be a small blog-like discussion beneath the article; it is kind of intriguing (perhaps even funny?) to read what some other, “casual” non-scientific observers are saying about this topic . . . there is anything from mild interest, surprise, to even outright cookiness displayed in these comments. (I say “cookiness” because there seems to be a difference between those who have scientifically-oriented mindset and those who are always looking over their shoulder expecting an alien invasion at any moment . . .)

I wonder, if it WAS possible to live on Mars (which, in my opinion, is more than unlikely, if not entirely impossible; I believe God put us on Earth for a reason . . . [feel free to disagree with me]), how many of you would actually like living in a cave your whole life? Hmm . . . happy Martian-cave exploring to you! Just kidding . . .

Want some help figuring out Charles Williams?

A biography

Wikipedia

"The Novels of Charles Williams," by Glen Cavaliero

"What About Charles Williams?" by Thomas Howard

I found something interesting while reading my biography of Tolkien, "Tolkien and the Great War" and afterwords reading "Out of the Silent Planet." They both mention the same idea about danger/pain in their writings.

In chapter 12 of "Out of the Silent Planet" Ransom has met the Hrossa and is talking to them about Oyarsa and the role of the Hnakra in their lives. In the middle of the conversation Hyoi, the Hrossa Ransom first met states about the Hnakra: "I do not think the forest would be so bright, nor the water so warm, nor love so sweet, if there were no danger in the lakes. (pg 76)"

Tolkien says something similar in the notes and sketches of his "Book of Lost tales" when Iluvatar and his Ainur have created the world by singing and music. Amongst the Ainur is Melko better known as Morgoth in later evolutions of the story. Though Melko has added dissonance to their beautiful music, Iluvatar states that it makes the world that much more marvellous (John Garth pg 255). I haven't read the "Book of Lost Tales" or "The Silmarilliron" to know if this aspect of the story remains or not, so someone will have to tell me.

What does everyone else make of Hyoi's statement? Does danger (or pain for that matter) make life sweeter and more marvellous?

Check it out...

N.T. Wright on C. S. Lewis

Throughout much of Till We Have Faces, Orual has herself veiled from the eyes of all men and all but a few women (Book I, chapter 16). [Presumably, some of Orual's ladies-in-waiting probably had to see her face, since they would have helped her with various tasks such as dressing, etc. (I really do not know exactly what they would do, since I have never had a slave or servant of any kind . . . which is probably a good thing!) Additionally, there is Bardia's wife, to whom Orual shows herself in Book II, chapter 1.]

While this veil serves as a covering hiding Orual's "ugly" face from the world, it also provides a sense of mystery to her persona. This not only allows her to go about her business until she is hardly regarded as feminine by many around her, but also allows her to be considered more powerful than she could otherwise be construed (Book I, chapter 20).

Yet, I cannot help seeing the veil as having another, perhaps somewhat more sinister, use. At one point, Orual wishes for the veil to cover face so her true thoughts and feelings may be concealed from the Fox, whom Orual thinks might not approve of what she has done: "I had taken off . . . the veil I had worn all day; now I greatly wished I had it on" (Book I, chapter 16). There seems to be no motive here that is related to power, physical appearance, or mystery - only the motive of concealing past actions, thoughts and emotions.

Because of this, I wonder if, while the veil is serving in hiding Orual's lack of physical beauty, it may also be concealing some lack of inner beauty . . . or some hidden "sin" that she does not wish to come to terms with. Perhaps then, in some kind of symbolic fashion, the self-induced-covering of the veil may picture Orual retreating from the idea that she, herself, might possibly be responsible for doing wrong . . .

Because this blog is associated with all the "Inklings," and not just C. S. Lewis, I thought we should start talking about some of these "other" fellows. [Of course, I do not mean "just" C. S. Lewis, as in "merely" C. S. Lewis - as if he would not be worth talking about! ;) ]

Many, if not most, of us have read J. R. R. Tolkien's well-known writings: The Lord of the Rings Trilogy or The Hobbit (or both). Yet Tolkien wrote many other works as well . . . most being of a somewhat longer (and possible more difficult to read) nature. These include books such as: The Silmarillion, The Book(s) of Lost Tales, Unfinished Tales, etc.

So, I was wondering . . . How many of you have survived some of these other, more obscure texts? If you have made it through them, what did you think of them, and how did they compare to your perception of LOTR Trilogy and The Hobbit?

Personally, I have not yet made it through more than three chapters of The Silmarillion in my numerous attempts to trudge through that book. I have vowed that one day I will make it- and that, my friends, is one of my life's goals . . .

I was intrigued by this passage from "The Four Loves":

"Say your prayers in a garden early, ignoring steadfastly the dew, the birds and the flowers, and you will come away overwhelmed by its freshness and joy; go there in order to be overwhelmed and, after a certain age, nine times out of ten nothing will happen to you" (page 22).

I could not help being reminded of Lewis' description of his search for "joy" in "Surprised by Joy." In a manner similar to the above example of the garden, Lewis was continually groping to be "overwhelmed" by the experience which he defined simply as "joy." However, the more he sought for it, the more this "joy" eluded him.

Is this something that has occurred to us, and of which we have at least a partial understanding? I mean, are there things that we have done so often for the pleasure it brings, that we know longer take pleasure in them, or become immune to their "pleasure" entirely?

This does even have to happen to "major" pleasures, as it seems, with the example of the garden, that Lewis believes this can happen with any pleasure, no matter how "small." Thus, it appears that a drug addict can lose the initial sense of pleasure brought by the drugs, while a man or woman who walks in the countryside "for fun" may lose their pleasure as well . . .

That is, they lose their sense of pleasure if they are trying to obtain this sense of pleasure: Lewis seems to suggest that real "overwhelming" may only happen when one is not looking for it. Thus, this leads to a new question: are the best pleasures of this life really the unsought-for, or even the unexpected? . . .

I really enjoyed the book Till We Have Faces (it's probably my favorite one so far). I especially liked the second half of the book.

In the scene at the temple Queen Orual is talking to a woman and says "Do you always pray to that Ungit," said I (nodding toward the shapeless stone), "and not to that?" Here I nodded towards our new image, standing tall and straight in her robes and (whatever the Fox might say of it) the loveliest thing our land has ever seen. "Oh, always this, Queen," said she. "That other, the Greek Ungit, she wouldn't understand my speech. She's only for nobles and learned men. There's no comfort in her."

I thought this was a really interesting scene showing people taking comfort in things unseen. Even though we can't see our God, we have faith to know he is there.

Another really moving part of the book happens a couple pages later where Orual realizes she is an Ungit type figure. She says "It was I who was Ungit. that ruinous face was mine. I was that Batta-thing, that all-devouring womblike, yet barren, thing. Glome was a web-I the swollen spider, squat at its center, gorged with men's stolen lives." Orual had been so selfish before she had her visions. After Bardia's death she talks with his widow and realizes that she had basically worked him to death.

My favorite part was Psyche and Oruals reunion and I even shed a few tears! Orual says "Oh, Psyche, oh goddess," I said. "Never again will I call you mine; but all there is of me shall be yours. Alas, you know now what it's worth. I never wished you well, never had one selfless thought of you. I was a craver." She bent over me to lift me up. Then, when I would not rise, she said, "But Maia, dear Maia, you must stand up. I have not given you the casket. You know I went a long journey to fetch the beauty that will make Ungit beautiful."
Each of the sisters suffered for each other. Psyche had to do many tasks for Ungit and Orual had to suffer from her visions and her unsatisfying life in Glome. After Orual realizes who she really is, she then fulfills the god's prophecy that "You will also be Psyche."

Just an excellent book all around and I don't have enough time to write down all my thoughts.

In Lewis's writings one of the themes that keeps reappearing is the idea of someone who says something that is beyond belief and whether they are crazy, lying, or telling the truth. In Till We Have Faces Lewis adds another possibility to the list, disillusionment. It is agreed between both Bardia and the Fox that Psyche is most likely disillusioned into thinking that her lover is a God. This is an interesting question to think about because it is most likely our first response to anyone modern claiming to be the Christ. We want to give them the benefit of the doubt that they aren't crazy. And if that's the case why not go so far as to say they aren't lying? We reject the possibility that they are telling the truth leaving us that maybe they are disillusioned. Maybe something happened to them that they perceived incorrectly. It is an interesting addition to this theme.

One thing that disappointed me a little about The Problem of Pain is that Lewis never really addressed the purpose for grossly disproportional pain and suffering. This would have been a really interesting topic for Lewis to have included considering this book first published shortly after the start of World War II. Lewis would tends to lean towards a God that allows pain and suffering to exist in the world rather than a God that picks and chooses sufferings for people. Even still why much there be so much pain? Is it really that our view of this pain as disproportional that is incorrect, or is there really more pain in the world than human wickedness can account for? Does our desire for less pain make us overly bias against the need for its existence?

While reading Till We Have Faces I was struck by O's actions as she seeks council from Bardia and the Fox. When recounting her story of her first encounter with Psyche she leaves out bits and pieces that she doesn't want to tell. Then later after her second encounter with Psyche she begins to think on her way back what parts of the story she would tell. Seeing the negative effects telling these 'half truths' have on O and the decisions she makes really hit home with me because it is something that I am often guilty of. Furthermore it is something that we are all guilty of, sometime or another, when we seek God's guidance. How often do we try to skirt around saying to God what we are really guilty of even when he knows more fully than we do.

Something i found interesting in "Till We Have Faces." During the later part of the book, when O becomes queen, she is almost a completely different person. Ok not almost, she is a completely different person. I'm not gonna lie, I like her as queen a lot more than I liked O. The queen looks out for her country and does a lot of good. and you know shes a ton better than her old man. does the veil have something to do with this transformation? or did she simply grow up when given a new responsiblity?

I agree with Aynsley (see post somewhere below) in that there is this sense of humor that shows itself in various places throughoutLewis' writings. The interesting thing is the these bursts of humor can sometimes seem so sudden (and, indeed, a bit random) that I wonder if Lewis himself always meant it (or even understood it) to be funny. Of course, he could have intentionally written something purely for the purpose of laughter, or to temporarily lighten the tone of an otherwise dark or difficult book/essay (such as Aynsley's example).

But are all his humorous sections done "on purpose"? Take, for example, this section from THE LAST BATTLE when Ginger the cat comes streaking out of the stable: " 'Aii-aii-aouwee! - ' The most horrible caterwaul you ever heard made everyone jump. You have been wakened yourself by cats quarreling or making love on the roof in the middle of the night: you know the sound" (chapter ten). Do you think Lewis meant for us to curl over in laughter (or start snickering: you pick) after reading such a section? Or could he have just written it as it came to him, without really quite realizing what some of his readers may think funny about it?

That being said, I was wondering if we could get a little section up on this Blog, which is completely devoted to the humorous sayings of C. S. Lewis (or, at least, what different people of this group may find funny; I realise that humor differs from individual to individual, and that what I find to be funny may not necessarily be what you or another person may find funny). It would be kind of cool if, by the end of the semester, we could have a huge line of comments listing many of these amusing anecdotes and what exactly we find amusing about them . . . just for the sake of pure silliness!

Laugh if you will!

Oh . . . by the way, one of my favorite humorous parts is what I have already quoted, and I do not think that that needs an explanation! ;) Another would be the following, from a letter that Lewis wrote on March 10, 1954: "He that but looketh on a plate of ham and eggs to lust after it, hath already committed breakfast with it in his heart." [This is, of course, artistically rephrasing the incident of when Jesus says that if a man even looks at a woman lustfully, he has slready committed adultery with her in his own heart (Matthew 5:28).] Did Lewis like ham and eggs? . . . hmm . . .

In "Till We Have Faces," I like the Greek emphasis Lewis has in the book. Although this book does not really talk about Christianity, it does get your mind whirling about Christiainity a bit. Since all truth is God's truth, I like the ideal of a Christian writer, writing on subject matter unrelated to Christianity. We can take Greek myths and it can help us find out more about God and the history He oversees (whether that be Greek history) or another aspect of history.

In "The Problem of Pain," Lewis argues against total depravity, saying that if we are totally depraved how would we know that we are totally depraved. A fair question. The way I understand total depravity is that we are unable to do anything good toward God of our own accord. I reply that we can know that we are total depraved, but even in realizing our total depravity, we cannot do anything about it without God's help.The more I try to be good toward God without asking for His help, the more frustration I find in my life. The scriptures say that it is not up to "Man's effort, but God's mercy" (Romans).

In the "Problem of Pain," Lewis poses the question of how humans could have thought up a good God by looking at the universe and all the crap that goes on in it. It's a fair question. Then again, when I see in my everyday life, good overcoming evil (i.e., love overcoming hate), I can fathom a good God. Or when I see the beauty of the universe (although beauty is not the same as morality), I could fathom a good God who does in fact care for us.

C.S. Lewis emphasizes freewill very heavily, but you cannot go to that much of an extreme. I will not negate that fact that we have freewill. Jesus says, "Come follow me," implying that the disciples had a choice in following him." It is written chose this day whom you will serve...", indicating we have a choice whether to serve God or not on a daily basis. Nonetheless, freewill taken to Lewis' extent implies that I have done something to become saved. If I have chosen God, instead of God choosing me, then it is of my own doing, it not of His grace and mercy.

In "Surprised By Joy," Lewis has a particularly heart-wrenching experience as a child. Unanswered prayers for his mom's recovery, unanswered questions about God.And then, he finds God (rather, God finds him), when he leasts expects it. I like this. This is my experience as a Christian. But why does God make us go throught the tough times? I don't know why, but I know that when the rain finally subsides, and the sunshine comes out again it is that much more beautiful of a scene for me.And for God to catch me when I least expect it, is better then it happening when I do expect it.

The question of if Lewis were alive today? Interesting...
What he would think about Christianity as a whole? That's a very large question. I don't really think that Christianity has changed in many ways since Lewis' days. As always in the history of Christianity, the Christians (me not excluded still forget that we are not under law but under grace). I still at times am not patient enough with people I know that are not Christians. I view Lewis as someone that would fight against the legalism of today. This ideal in some circles that Christan rock music is wrong for example. He would emphasis the joy aspect. He would meet people who are searching Christianity out today where they are at. During World War II, he met them in the area of suffering. Today he would not back down from post-modernism. He would say that if his God was not tough enough to survive post-modernism, then he'll go worship post-modernism instead. He would write about post-modernism in his books.

If Lewis were alive today, based on the books that we have reviewed, what do you think would his outlook be towards Christianity as whole? This new movement we like to label "The Postmodern Movement"? The mass comercialization of Christian products? The influx of the pop-Christian culture in music? Please feel free to answer some or one of these questions and add any interesting insights that you might come up with! I would love to see what Lewis would think about these things, and many more!

The theme of vision seems to saturate Till We Have Faces, in that the characters are often volitionally blinded by their own consuming self-centeredness- what I wondered about as I finished the book was why Lewis chose to draw a parallel between God and cupid who, in the traditional story, was too afraid of his mother, Venus, to shed the deception he practiced on both her and Psyche. Granted, as Prof. Jensen so often states, that there isn’t supposed to be a one-to one correspondence between the characters in his novels and the characters of the “Christian myth,” however I cannot reconcile the loving and generous nature of God with the fool-hardy capers of one of the lesser gods. I feel, that in some ways, that we are led to think that God is practicing a grand deceit – a vanishing trick in which the Statue of Liberty was never there in the first place. I accept that Lewis’ ultimate goal was to depict conversion from an outside perspective, but I can’t help feeling that the means he used were unfair. What do you think?