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Key insights from
On Stories: And Other Essays on
Literature
By
C.S. Lewis
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What you’ll learn
British author and scholar C.S. Lewis (1898-1963) once
quipped that “you couldn’t get [him] a cup of tea large enough or a book
long enough to suit [him].” Lewis was not only a prolific writer; he was
also a voracious reader. With his formidable literary appetite and formal
training in Literature at Oxford, he became a skilled critic with the
ability even to analyze the art of criticism. In this collection of essays,
Lewis takes out his scalpel and applies his gift for criticism to famous
(and at the time, contemporary, works) like 1984, Animal Farm,
and The Lord of the Rings. He also reflects on the joys of reading
stories for Story’s sake, takes on persistent misunderstandings about
children’s literature (and about children themselves), and argues that many
critics are actually quite bad at criticizing.
Read on for key insights from On Stories.
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1. The Lord of the
Rings is a story dipped in myth that illuminates all of life’s meaning
hidden in plain sight.
Professor Tolkien has succeeded in creating something that
retains the most evocative qualities of ancient myths but is also wholly
original. The Lord of the Rings has the weightiness of the
ancient—even the primordial—but carries the freshness of artistic
innovation. Critics rightly note that there’s nothing quite like it. In an
era of epidemic anti-romanticism, Tolkien has unleashed a heroic romance
that is unabashedly epic and courageous. In doing so, he shows himself an
exemplar of what he himself has called “sub-creators,” those who create
worlds in imitation of their Creator.
This sub-creator par excellence has created a world like no
other, and one that feels more “real” than our own. Whether you wander
through the Shire, across the Plains of Rohan, or are fortunate enough to
stumble into an elven realm like Lothlorien, each place erupts with the
weightiness of culture and history. Professor Tolkien has not only created
a world, but given it its own mythology, theology, and different races of
creatures, each with their own rich history and language.
The names of characters and places themselves hold
tremendous richness. They evoke a variety of sentiments, from regal and
lofty (Boromir, Elendil) to charmingly homey (the Shire, the South
Farthing); from brooding and hideous (Barad Dur, Mirkwood) to otherworldly
and majestic (Galadriel, Lothlorien).
The most common critique critics have leveled at The
Lord of the Rings, oneis that Tolkien’s mythology is too black and
white, that the boundary lines between good and evil are too starkly
delineated. Professor Tolkien has made tension between good and evil the
foundation of his world, but neither good nor evil nestles so comfortably
in the heart of a character that it can’t be dislodged by the opposing
force. Until we get to the end of the story, Smeagol retains glimmers of
deep goodness and devotion. Boromir’s fiercest struggle against evil is a
war waged in his own chest. Motives are often mixed, even among those
fighting most passionately against Sauron. Let’s not assume that just
because there is white and black on a chess board, that all pieces are
confined to only black or white squares. The bishop is the only piece that
stays on his color.
If someone insisted on drawing out a guiding moral from The
Lord of the Rings, it would be a call to the courage that sits,
sometimes precariously, between glib optimism and paralyzed pessimism.
There is anguish in that wilderness between them, and there’s no doubt that
anguish is the central note throughout the book. Fantasy can connote
escapism, but there is hardly anything more real or confrontational than a
story of growing darkness reaching out to cover the world and snuff out
what’s vulnerable and innocent. At its finest, myth pulls away the “veil of
familiarity” that blocks us from recognizing the rich meaning hidden in our
everyday lives. Middle Earth doesn’t take us away from Earth—it reacquaints
us with it.
To put it mildly, The Lord of the Rings is a
masterpiece. The world and the story are suffused with beauty that will
break your heart and leave you grateful they did.
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2. George Orwell’s
1984 was a disappointment, but Animal Farm was nearly perfect.
It seems there are 10 people who have read 1984 for
every one person who has read Animal Farm. At their core, both
stories are frank and acrid treatments of totalitarianism, but one has
proven far more popular. It is perplexing (and even disheartening) that 1984
would be the work to so arrest the public’s attention. It is an interesting
but defective book, whereas Animal Farm is pure genius.
Animal Farm
does far more with far less. 1984 is longer than it needs to be.
Orwell devotes inordinate time and attention to themes that don’t relate to
the book’s overall effect. The State’s anti-sexuality propaganda is a prime
example. It could have been the case that the puppeteers behind Orwell’s
State have a strong aversion to sexuality, but Orwell gives us no sign that
the anti-sex propaganda stems from State leaders’ hatred of sex. This all
raises the question of whether the anti-sex propaganda shows us what
totalitarianism is like, or what Orwell’s personal antipathies are like.
Lewis’ hunch is that Orwell grew up amidst a swell of
so-called “anti-Puritanism,” and saw an opportunity to take aim at a
specter of his youth. Not only are these figures in 1984
totalitarians, but they are totalitarians who hate sex—just the kind of
people Orwell might especially love to hate. While depicting evils related
to totalitarianism he hates so much, he throws in other elements that he
considers especially vile-–even if they have little to do with
totalitarianism or the totalitarians implementing those policies. The main
problem with the book’s erotic passages is not “bad morals” so much as it
presents a red herring, drawing the reader’s attention to evils that are
not inherently totalitarian—but which the author personally hates and wants
to smuggle in nonetheless. This is just one of many examples of the
author’s psychology getting in the way of his artistry.
By contrast, Animal Farm is just about perfect.
Orwell makes every line count. The line “All animals are equal but some are
more equal than others” cuts to the heart of things with greater
incisiveness than 1984 in its entirety. He says no more and no
less than what needs to be said.
Paradoxically, the animals in the Farm are far more
human and believable than the hero and heroine in 1984. When we
read about this small society of animals, we strangely feel we are in an
actual place. These images of gluttonous pigs, hostile hounds, and noble
steeds remind us of encounters we’ve had with people—of the best and worst
that erupts from humanity. The story is mythological in the most elevated
sense of the word.
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3. Children are
not their own breed, separate from adults, as some think.
Children have sometimes been described (and often been
treated) as “a different breed” from adults. One area where this thinking
shows up is in children’s literature—a mushrooming industry built on the
assumption that children’s tastes are a phase that they eventually outgrow
and (as society insinuates) should be embarrassed to return to.
But this notion fails to square with the fact that children
have all kinds of literary preferences—their likes and dislikes are just as
varied as our own. Just like adults, some children love sensational, epic
stories, while others prefer informational books. Still others like a
variety of texts. Like some adults, there are some children who avoid books
altogether if they can find something else they consider more
diverting.
If a book read in childhood is not worth rereading as an
adult, it was not worth reading in childhood in the first place. Children
and adults differ in experience and information, not fundamentally in
essence. According to many in modern society, the stories full of adventure
and wonder are a childish indulgence that have no place in “the real
world.” But if you look at the mythologies and epics of people throughout
the world and across history, adventure and wonder were considered the
realest things at the heart of life itself. These tales were not considered
for children, but for humans.
In fact, children were never considered the primary audience
for fairy tales until recently. Fairy tales were a formal feature of Louis
XIV’s court, which delighted its (adult) listeners. It has only been
recently in our history that adult sensibilities have shifted away from
those “old stories” and relegated them to the nursery. It’s not strange
that many children like fairy tales. Those children that love fairy stories
are very much aligned with what people across the ages have been drawn
to.
What is truly strange is that today’s adults tend to be
dismissive of such tales. It’s stranger still that many children have
persisted in their love of fairy tales despite a cultural current so
decidedly against such stories. Children are not the strange ones—we are.
Being dismissive of fairy tales because children enjoy them is about as
silly as rejecting a good night’s sleep because children are sleeping
through the night.
In a word, it is a mistake to conflate fairy tales and
“children’s stories.” The tastes of children are not childish, but very
human—more human than those of adults, who are so susceptible to the latest
literary fads and movements. The power of the Fantastic and Mythical is
available to anyone open to being put under its spell. Perhaps the strongest
case for the power of these stories is the strength of the reactions it
provokes—either of deep anger and suspicion or of delight and wonder. No
one is neutral about it.
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4. A deep hatred
for something is not an invitation to criticize it, but to fall silent.
The more you hate something, the worse you will be at
explaining what that thing is. You will care less about making distinctions
and lose your sense of nuance. Anything that resembles that thing you hate,
you will cynically lump in with all other things that remind you of it.
We see this in the realm of science fiction. Most reviews
are unhelpful because instead of condemning the book itself, they show us
the critics’ dislike of a whole genre. Criticism of a specific work
devolves into a criticism of the kind in general to which the work belongs.
Lewis doesn’t care for detective stories. He knows that if
he tried to review such a story, it would be rubbish because all detective
stories seem the same to him. Someone who knows what it is like to
experience the joy of a good detective story is far better positioned to
explain why a new detective novel evoked that joy or why it might have
failed to.
Never forget that it is a risky thing to write about the
things you hate. When a visceral hate rises up, don’t take it as an
invitation to unleash your venom on a subject. Take that emotion as a
caution signal, and a reminder to tread lightly or even pass over the
subject in silence.
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5. The role of
excitement in a story is both wonderful and misunderstood.
When critics discuss a book, they tend to focus on style,
plot, the development of characters, or any number of dimensions of a
story, but most pass over the Story itself. Besides Aristotle from
antiquity, Boccaccio from the early Renaissance, and Carl Jung from the
modern era (as well as a handful of their followers), no one has given
Story itself serious attention. Often, critics look at what the piece is
hoping to accomplish, treating Story as a means to some other end, like
societal critique or moralizing. Story is rarely entered into as an end in
itself.
Many view enjoyment of story for its own sake as a merely
childish pursuit. It is not. Others have misconceptions regarding the kind
of enjoyment Story for its own sake brings. Both of these misunderstandings
need our attention.
When reading a book purely for the story, there are two
distinct ways in which people enjoy it. Some people enjoy the moment of
danger and suspense, breathlessly wondering what will happen next. Whether
it’s an outlaw sneaking up on a policeman, or a burglar breaking into a
home, or an ancient hero in a swordfight with his rival, the enjoyment
resides in the nerve-rattling moments of uncertainty. Another, subtler way
of enjoying the story comes less from the particular moment of action and
more from seeing how that moment is situated in the whole world to which
it’s connected.
The difference in these two types of enjoyment and
excitement come out in The Three Musketeers. Though many consider
this to be the most exciting story ever written, Lewis confesses that he
doesn’t like it at all. For him, the story offers no sense of the
atmosphere in which the constant flurry of daring deeds takes place.
There’s no mention of countryside or weather, no sense of the significance
of places. London and Paris are effectively the same place beyond being a
new location for more daring feats. Lewis chooses to take others at their
word that The Three Musketeers is, in fact, a wonderful story.
The dilemma of enjoying a story for the rush of excitement
is that the level of excitement is what becomes paramount. The higher the
stakes, the riskier the endeavor, the more daring the feat, the better. But
when we enjoy a book primarily for the excitement, it is usually only good
for one read. It will never deliver the same thrill as the first time. Not
only will we not enjoy it as much the second time, but we lose touch with
the different kinds of danger that exist.
When we appreciate the world and atmosphere surrounding that
moment, we come to appreciate different kinds of danger, not just differing
intensities. For example, there’s a fear that borders on awe, like a
soldier hearing guns thundering around him for the first time. Then there’s
the fear that seems like disgust, as when you find a spider in your
bedsheets. This is different from the tense and focused fear of taming a
stallion or navigating a ferocious storm. Different from all these is the
fear that overcomes a patient when the doctor gives a fatal prognosis.
That’s more of a crushing, deadening kind of fear. If you were to imagine a
musical score to accompany each of these fearful scenes, the music would
sound very different for each.
Could it be that the thrilling and titillating aspects of
excitement subvert a subtler form of imaginative enjoyment? This subtler
form requires us to sit with a situation or with the entirety of the
atmosphere long enough to let the weight and meaning settle into your soul.
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