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I believe it took me longer to read C. S. Lewis’ Letters than any other book I have owned. As I recall, when I had finally finished it I remarked in my journal that after reading that book for so long when Lewis dies at the end it actually felt as though I experienced the death of a friend who I had been in regular conversation with for months on end. What I remember about reading Lewis’ Letters is the subtle feeling like you are peeping in on half of a conversation not meant for you, 509 pages of conversation not meant for you. Lewis, being an Oxford don in literature and speaking to other academic types, at times refers to varies Greek texts and quotes the Greek without bothering to translate it for me, his voyeuristic audience. I can’t really blame him — he wasn’t writing it for my benefit — but it is royally frustrating none the less. It is like having a friend give the punch line to a long joke in Japanese; It’s awfully hard to laugh but your friend is obviously having fun so it must have been a good one.

In between the Greek references Lewis goes to great pains to describe his everyday life to friends in many letters (especially shown in the first half of the book) such as detailing his latest romp through the countryside or the update on his involvement with the army during the War. It can be fun to try to imagine early 20th century England but most of the time I am simply tromping along waiting for him to talk about something I can relate to.

Aside from the mysterious Greek quotes, wonderments about what he is responding to in letters where the first half of conversation is not included, and the minutia of British vegetation and landscape I found some gems well worth the perseverance. First, it has the richest and most interesting bibliography I have every found in one book. Lewis habitually reviews and critiques a book or author, it is a rare chance to peek at what the bookshelf in his quarters would have held and see what books influenced and intrigued (or disgusted) him. Secondly, it has some real moments of brief teaching that I would have missed otherwise, ranging from history and literature to theology and philosophy. Perhaps my favorite biblical commentary ever is a brief note he makes to a friend about the night at the Garden of Gethsemane: ” The prayer recorded in Matthew is much too short to be long enough for the disciples to go to sleep! They record the bit they heard before they fell asleep.” [pg 383]

One of the gems I uncovered in this book is a few passages where he writes some specific and practical advice on writing, getting practical advice from a writer such as Lewis is a real treat. I would like to comment about some of the things he says but when it comes to thoughts on how to write well I don’t think I can stand toe to toe with ol’ Clive so I will simply hand them out and say that if you have the energy to walk through most of Lewis’ life in his Letters, plan on bringing a few sack lunches but also expect him to know where all the best rest stops and hidden pubs are hiding, the breaking through of the sun on an overcast day at the perfect moment when you pass by a break in the tree cover and see the vast and rolling landscape you have been hiking all week.

TO JOAN LANCASTER: from The Kilns

26 June 1956

You describe your Wonderful Night v. well. That is, you describe the place & the people and the night and the feeling of it all, very well — but not the thing itself — the setting but not the jewel. And no wonder! Wordsworth often does just the same. His Prelude (you’re bound to read it about ten years’ hence. Don’t try it now, or you’ll spoil it for later reading) is full of moments in which everything except the thing itself is described. If you become a writer you’ll be trying to describe the thing all your life: and lucky if, out of dozens of books, one or two sentences, just for a moment, come near to getting it across.

About amn’t I, aren’t I, and am I not, of course there are no right and wrong answers about language in the sense which there are right and wrong answers in Arithmetic. “Good English” is whatever educated people talk: so that what is good in one place or time wd not be so in another. Amn’t was good fifty years ago in the North of Ireland where I was brought up, but bad in Southern England. Aren’t I wd have been hideously bad in Ireland but was good in England. And of course I don’t know which (if either) is good in modern Florida. Don’t take any notice of teachers and text-books in such matters. Nor of logic. It is good to say “More than one passenger was hurt” although more than one equals at least two and therefore logically the verb ought to be plural were not singular was! What really matters is: —

(1) Always try to use language so as to make quite clear what you mean and make sure yr sentences couldn’t mean anything else.

(2) Always prefer the plain direct word to the long vague one. Don’t implement promises, but keep them.

(3) Never use abstract nouns when concrete ones will do. If you mean “more people died” don’t say “mortality rose”.

(4) In writing. Don’t use adjectives which merely tell us how you want us to feel about the thing you are describing. I mean, instead of telling us a thing was “terrible”, describe it so that we’ll be terrified. Don’t say it was “delightful”: make us say “delightful” when we’ve read the description. You see, all those words (horrifying, wonderful, hideous, exquisite) are only like saying to your readers “Please will you do my job for me”.

(5) Don’t use words too big for the subject. Don’t say “infinitely” when you mean “very”; otherwise you’ll have no word left when you want to talk about something really infinite . . .  [1]

___

TO A SCHOOLGIRL IN AMERICA (who had written, at her teacher’s

suggestion, to request advice on writing): from The Kilns

14 December 1959

(1) Turn off the Radio.

(2) Read all the good books you can, and avoid nearly all magazines.

(3) Always write (and read) with the ear, not the eye. You shd hear every sentence you write as if it was being read aloud or spoken. If it does not sound nice, try again.

(4) Write about really interests you, whether it is real things or imaginary things, and nothing else. (Notice this means that if you are interested only in writing you will never be a writer, because you with have nothing to write about . . .)

(5) Take great pains to be clear. Remember that though you start by knowing what you mean, the reader doesn’t, and a single ill-chosen word may lead him to a total misunderstanding. In a story it is terribly easy just to forget that you have not told reader something that he needs to know — the whole picture is so clear in your own mind that you forget that it isn’t the same in his.

(6) When you give up a bit of work don’t (unless it is hopelessly bad) throw it away. Put it in a drawer. It may come in useful later. Much of my best work, or what I think my best, is the re-writing of things begun and abandoned years earlier.

(7) Don’t use a typewriter. The noise will destroy your sense of rhythm, which still needs years of training.

(8) Be sure you know the meaning (or meanings) of every word you use.   [2]

Being a writer myself, getting advice of this sort is near priceless even when I read things such as “Turn off the Radio” and cringe knowing how I have what feels like a biological necessity to listen to music as much as possible, and especially when I am writing. I have specific sorts of music chosen precisely for the effect and mood they bring to the room. Like a good meal and fine brew I seek to pair the right music with the writing or other creative tasks I sit down to work on; essay writing and thinking processes usually are accompanied by atmospheric indie or folk such as Ray Lamontagne, Bon Iver, Sufjan Stevens or Air whereas design or planning work is paired more recently with club-hop from France like Daft Punk, Justice, or Bitter.Sweet.

Perhaps the most significant of these notes for me has been understanding the author/creator vs. the audience experience which Lewis hits on in his “Don’t tell us, make us say . . .” note. As I continue to learn how to critique and appreciate literature (indeed, all the arts) I have become more aware of the difference between an authors ability to awake the dormant imagination through a well crafted work and the fertile soil of a dreamer’s imagination in which nearly any plant, flower or weed, can grow rapidly. It is a greater mark of creative mastery to be able to prick the mind of a sullen old rationalist than a wide-eyed child in who’s gaze even the most mundane kitchen tool can be the fabled Excalibur. There are greater themes behind that to explore — which I hope to do so soon in another essay — but so far as it goes as developing a healthy ability to critique works for the wealth that is in them, learning that distinction between author’s ability and audiences receptivity is a great blessing to learn from those who truly do have the creative talent to make the crotchety old miser loft his wooden ladle over the grandson in an act of royal blessing when he may be more accustomed to the act of judicial punishment.

J.R.MYSZKA

_____

For other thoughts from C. S. Lewis on literature I also suggest the book On Stories: And Other Essays on Literature.

[1] C.S. Lewis. Letters of C. S. Lewis. Ed. W. H. Lewis, Walter Hooper. Orlando: Harcourt, 1966. pg 456-457.

[2] Letters of C.S. Lewis. pg 485.