Woah.

            Absolutely phenomenal.

            Perhaps I’m not well read enough to judge, but I would venture to say C.S. Lewis is my favorite author, so I went into this reading with a great deal of interest and anticipation. Although it was not assigned, I read the foreword and introduction in addition to the first two chapters. This was a great help to me.

            Even in the foreword and introduction I found things I wanted to write about. Then, digging into Lewis’ own thoughts, nearly every page contained a message or quote that surpassed the one before it in its profoundness. The biggest struggle of this blog was how to avoid writing an extremely thorough essay. I could dialogue for longer than I choose to determine about this.

            For me, I suppose then it would be best to try and look at the biggest possible picture of what the text says then decide if I can find something more specific to write of. To scour the writing for all that struck me would consume far more time than I’m afraid I can spare. Maybe the best will remain in the front of my mind.

            Enough riffraff.

            Lewis is writing cathartically. This is something that I absolutely love to do. When I get confused or hurt about something, I write. I write, I think, and I dialogue. Indeed, writing, thinking, and dialogue fuel one another and lead to great discoveries, but I think writing might be my favorite. Lewis writes splendidly, and dialogues with himself to an extreme degree throughout the text, and it’s clear that he’s thinking. My personal experience with fleshing out hard issues through writing allowed me a glimpse into his despair, I feel.

            Still, I think one of the most haunting things about this reading is my realization that my glimpse into his despair is hardly even a glimpse. I felt a strange mix of desires as I struggled to empathize with Lewis. On one hand, I hope to one day suffer deeply so that I might fathom the heart of this man. But, on the other hand, if I understand him correctly, first hand comprehension is a dangerously high price. I don’t think I can hardly scratch the surface of a true understanding of his pain, and as much as I would like to, I don’t think I would like to.

            In regard to more specific thoughts . . .

            How true is it that our nearest and dearest are so easily forgotten? To try and create a clear mental picture of the ones I love most dearly becomes more difficult the longer I look at it. Just as Lewis says, it changes. I have the reality of these people around me to snap their image back into focus, but he didn’t. He had pictures yes, but as he says, no picture can ever capture a person.

           Honestly, linking this to another text we’ve read seems too easy. If you want grief, look at the book Joel. People are weeping and wailing at the blood, fire, smoke, darkness, and death all around. War is raging, the heavens are trembling. And it’s vividly painted, allowing us almost to observe it. How much more of an observed grief could you ask for? Still, I wonder how Lewis would have compared his own grief to the grief of Joel’s text. Would he have seen his grief as greater? Would have intellectually acknowledge the pain in Joel to be equal or greater, but willingly irrationally decided his was worse?  Would he have consider his less?

            Now, this is weird . . . I don’t do this often. But I feel a poem may be a better expression for my overall reaction, which I labor to articulate.

I inquire thus, not to taunt and boast, but for a taste of relief:

O, death, where is your sting? O, grief, where is yours?

Among the trials and pain in life, I consider this question chief.

What burning pain I feel from all sides, but cannot grasp.

What bitter facet of grief and death holds me tightest?

I escape the clutch of other pain, but I cannot this clasp.

Will one day I fathom truth about the life that ends?

I pray, God, not. I fear I would not stand against it.

Still, perhaps love is what the painful message sends.