Back in those days, before I tried to examine the appeal, I knew only that the stories felt so right to me. It was as if Lewis plugged the brain of someone else directly into mine, and all the visceral feelings that could not be described poured through me as if the book’s experiences were my own. He had an uncanny way of capturing so much of what was so important to an imaginative, idealistic child— wanting to do the right thing even if you don’t know what the right thing is, the guilt you feel when you act small and petty because you’re hurting and exhausted, and the true nature of bravery that isn’t so much about being unafraid as it is pressing on despite your fear. The way I felt through all of those things, all the good things I wanted to be and do, and all the bad things I hoped someone would forgive, Lewis seemed to understand, and so capably put into words.
As I ventured into writing myself, more than anything else I’d ever read I wanted to emulate this ability of Lewis’s— that of conveying how people really felt. Observing the way he did it, I endeavored to learn how to take all the unvoiced gut feelings of my internal self and translate them into words. As I grew, I wondered if there was anything else that could speak to me in the way Narnia did, more to feed the fires of my growing desire for writer’s knowledge. When I learned how much else Lewis had written, I had to read more.
In the Chronicles of Narnia, Lewis used the phrase “for the first time” as an expression of the experience of the numinous. To this day, I cannot hear the phrase without the same associations. In reading more and more of Lewis’s work, I discovered many new things that gave meaning to that phrase for me. Through him, “for the first time,” I met many things that were numinous to me. I read his other fantastical fiction, the Space Trilogy and Till We Have Faces. I read his satire, The Screwtape Letters and The Great Divorce. I read his Christian apology, Mere Christianity, The Problem of Pain, and Miracles. I read Surprised by Joy and A Grief Observed, his autobiographical works. Though I loved some better than others, every one of them touched me in a unique way, and each one taught me more about how the written word can touch you.
His Christian apology helped me with the questions in my own soul. I am a religious Catholic, but for me it manifests very much internally— a system of belief and values that informs the way I live more than something I often display obviously. I cannot usually connect with religiosity that is expressed more in form than in philosophy. But here was Lewis, for whom faith was not a collection of dos and don’ts, nor empty rituals, nor a lot of pedagogical Bible stories. As was the Deeper Magic from The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, it was simply the truth of the universe, inbuilt within the bones of the world. It needed to be examined and understood as much as chemistry and physics. Even when I did not agree with his point of view, the method by which he worked it out always made sense to me. For the first time, I had a framework with which to examine and codify my own beliefs.
Though his autobiographical works, I learned more about the life he’d led and the kind of man he was. His existence had often been a hard one— a lonely, difficult childhood, endless family tragedy, and a fraught struggle to come to peace with the nature of God. It was interesting to contrast his person with that of J.R.R. Tolkien, a contemporary of his and another author I’d grown up on. Tolkien was so certain of himself, of his identity and of the things he believed, and had been all his life. Lewis, by contrast, had none of the comfort of easy truths. Every truth he’d ever come to he had suffered dearly for, deconstructing, tearing his own guts apart so that he could examine every hidden piece. And for the first time I saw from where his grasp of humanity came. He knew himself at all costs, from the totality of his strengths to the depths of his weaknesses, that knowledge coming to him only by the stark, merciless self-judgment he enforced on his struggle to attain it. And from his self-knowledge came knowledge of man, by the same uncompromising process. He was so ruthlessly fair, clear-eyed enough to regard the complicated nature of humanity with just the right measure of judgment and compassion. He articulated both “Who am I, that it is so wrong that I should suffer?” and “I am such that my suffering does signify.” He was so full of that burning contradiction, so strange and yet so critical, of the everything and the nothing of our state, unafraid to at once accept the burden and claim the significance.
In seeing his own weakness, he learned what human weakness was. In seeing his own strength, he grasped the nature of human strength. He kept cutting, no matter how painful, until he exposed truth. And when he wrote, he had all the glory of that knowledge giving fire to everything he said.
And, for the first time, I understood. His work hit me in the gut because his work encompassed the truth of mankind. This was it, I realized. This was why I loved his writing above all others. There were points of style, of course. I always have admired the way he manages to cap his paragraphs with the punchiest, most spot-on sentences that just perfectly conclude the point. But by and large his writing is unadorned, without flourish. He is not a writer of poetical device. He tells you exactly, straightforwardly, what he means to tell you. And in that, his plainspoken words were given gravitas and elegance by the perfection with which he reflected the human condition. That was the power, that was the beauty of all of Lewis’s varied work. His understanding of the human soul felt more real to me than that of any writer I’d ever read. I felt its realness in my bones, and my own view grew and changed through its influence.
That, I believe, is the key— to communicate the truth of such ethereal things, you must do the hard work of coming to grips with them. Perhaps no one can teach understanding of the self, or of humanity. But Lewis taught me how to go about seeking them. And the more I develop it, the more real, the more true, and the more powerful my work will become. By pouring it into my writing, perhaps my work will be able to touch others the way Lewis’s work touched me.
More than any other author, Lewis has shaped the writer, the Christian, and the person I am. Someday I hope I will write with the same significance, the same power to move as his did, and encourage someone else to try and capture their truth.
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