Today, on the sixtieth anniversary of C.S. Lewis’ passing, I offer you a special gift. Well, not a modest gift from my own pen, but a link to an insightful obituary, written by one of Lewis’ students.
The author of the obituary, John Wain, one of Britain’s “angry young men,” is critical of some aspects of Lewis’ work that are most appreciated by others. Yet his unique perspective is valuable.
The Inklings included in their number Charles Williams, a man C.S. Lewis deeply respected. They compiled for him a Festschrift, but since he passed before it was presented, it was published as a memorial collection. Lewis wrote the preface, in which he included this amazing passage.
So, at any rate, many of us felt it to be. No event has so corroborated my faith in the next world as Williams did simply by dying. When the idea of death and the idea of Williams thus met in my mind, it was the idea of death that was changed. (Essays presented to Charles Williams).
The legacy of C.S. Lewis himself, exerts a similar influence on many.
I’ll not say more, other than to extend a sincere “thank you” to Dr. Brenton Dickieson, who transcribed it from a twentieth century literary magazine. Dickieson consistently provides solid, and accessible, Inkling scholarship at A Pilgrim in Narnia.
Artificial intelligence is on the rise. It’s IQ is somewhere above 75, and presumably still climbing. And some very intelligent human beings, are issuing apocalypticwarnings.
“Mitigating the risk of extinction from A.I. should be a global priority alongside other societal-scale risks, such as pandemics and nuclear war,” reads a one-sentence statement released by the Center for AI Safety, a nonprofit organization. The open letter was signed by more than 350 executives, researchers and engineers working in A.I.
Presently, I’m more wary of Russia, China and Iran igniting an end of the world scenario.
But there is one particular aspect of artificial intelligence that intrigues me. And that is the creation of literary works by these programs, which are themselves creations of humankind.
Some people, such as copywriters, feel their livelihoods are being threatened. “My amusement turned to horror: it took ChatGPT 30 seconds to create, for free, an article that would have taken me hours to write.” (And that was clocked way back in January; no telling how quickly the AI could perform the feat today.)
Others – think teachers – are alarmed by how simply this new technology can seduce students to take self-crippling shortcuts. One article refers to this as “the elephant in the room.”
Perhaps all questions centered on AI are inherently questions of ethics, and at the forefront of many teachers’ minds is cheating and plagiarism.
Cheating and plagiarism are two separate concerns, of course. AI is capable of not only drawing together already existing material, and generating new word combinations that cannot be tracked back to any unique original source.
I feel confident that the Inklings would be extremely suspicious of computer-generated “literature.” Yet, at the same time, I think it is a subject they too would find intriguing.
Test-Driving AI
There are a myriad of free sites where a person can enter some basic parameters or directions and await the product of text generated by a synthetic “mind.” I share below some examples of the input—output results of my initial experiment.
I asked Open AI, creators of ChatGPT, to write two limericks, about the Oxford Inklings and C.S. Lewis, respectively.
In Oxford, the Inklings did meet, With words and with wisdom so sweet. Tolkien and Lewis, Their minds in a breeze, Inkling tales made our imaginations fleet.
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C.S. Lewis, a writer so grand, In Narnia’s magical land. With Aslan the Lion, In tales that inspire, He showed us the way to understand.
Next I asked for an Inkling sonnet, followed by two haikus, addressing the Inklings as a fellowship and C.S. Lewis the individual.
In Oxford’s hallowed halls, they gathered ‘round, The Inklings, minds of genius, so profound. With ink-stained fingers, in their fellowship, They wove their tales, from wisdom’s well to sip.
Tolkien, the philologist of ancient lore, In Elvish tongues, his stories did explore. Lewis, the Christian apologist true, In Narnia’s world, he brought God’s message through.
Williams, Barfield, Dyson, and the rest, In literature and faith, they were blessed. Their words a beacon in a world so dark, Igniting minds with sparks from wisdom’s arc.
Oxford’s Inklings, their legacy remains, In timeless tales, where inspiration reigns.
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Inklings’ minds aflame, Oxford’s thinkers left their mark, Words and wisdom’s claim.
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C.S. Lewis penned grace, Faith and fantasy embraced, Words that still embrace.
And finally, I requested: “write a story about C.S. Lewis really traveling to Narnia.” The program has a “regenerate” button to address the same query with a fresh response. Due to their lengths, I’ve included them as “footnotes” below.
Shockingly, to me at least, it took less than 10 minutes to complete all of this. Each response, in fact, took mere seconds . . . not much longer than the time required to type the requests.
There are a growing number of companies offering AI services. Most offer free opportunities to test their wares. I decided to try one such vendor.
WriterHand declares “our tool is 100% free, allowing you to create limitless text and blog content with the assistance of artificial intelligence.” I requested of them a sonnet and haiku, as well. The first follows, with two other variants in the footnotes below.
The Oxford Inklings, a literary group Of J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis and more Created stories that still make us droop And have us seeking out their lore.
Their works of fantasy and myth Fill our imaginations with delight We all search for the answers they lit To the depths of our inner sight.
They wrote of worlds we can explore Of knights, dragons and magical things We follow their tales and come back for more And find joy in their musings.
The Oxford Inklings have a special charm Their words bring us together in song And we are forever in their warm Enchanting arms of wonder and long.
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Inklings of Oxford Stories of fantasy told Enchantment forever
As with ChatGPT, I ended by requesting a brief, fictional story. My request was for a story about:
C.S. Lewis Meeting an Actual Talking Marsupial
On a recent summer day, C.S. Lewis, the famed author of the Chronicles of Narnia series, had a very extraordinary encounter. He had the chance to meet an actual talking marsupial.
The marsupial was a small wallaby, and it was found on the grounds of Lewis’ estate. It was not long before the wallaby began speaking to Lewis in a highly sophisticated manner. The wallaby spoke in a dialect that sounded similar to English, and was even able to converse with Lewis about the various topics he enjoyed discussing.
The wallaby was quite curious about Lewis and seemed to be quite eager to learn more about him and his works. It asked numerous questions about the Narnia series and the world that Lewis had created. It seemed to be quite fascinated by the various creatures and wonders that he had described.
The wallaby seemed to be quite intelligent and even asked for Lewis’ advice on certain topics. Lewis found the wallaby’s interest in the Narnia series quite amusing and was quite impressed by its intelligence and wit.
This meeting between Lewis and the talking marsupial was one that Lewis would never forget. It was an experience that he found both fascinating and enlightening. He was amazed by the marsupial’s intelligence and ability to converse on a level that exceeded many humans.
Lewis was quite taken aback by the talking marsupial’s presence and the conversation that ensued. He was quite intrigued by the creature’s intelligence and the fact that it could understand complex topics. This experience would later serve to further inspire Lewis’ writing and help him create some of the most beloved characters in literature.
This experience between Lewis and the talking marsupial was truly extraordinary and one that will never be forgotten. It was a meeting that allowed Lewis to learn more about the creatures that inhabit his beloved Narnia and to gain a better understanding of the power of imagination and creativity.
A Final Thought from C.S. Lewis
One of C.S. Lewis’ countless correspondents was the famous British author Arthur C. Clarke. In 1954, they exchanged letters discussing the human element of literature. I suppose it’s a subject for philosophers to explore, but one wonders how clearly the “humanity” element is communicated through a nonhuman mechanism. Sadly, Lewis’ letter is not so prescient as to address our current question, but it was sufficient to raise the matter in my own thoughts.
Dear Clarke,
Human interest, yes. But that is inevitably present if the fears and hopes and wonders of the astronauts are vividly realised – e.g. as in Bedford & Cavor on the Moon [he refers here to H.G. Wells’ The First Men in the Moon] or even Crusoe on the island. And an author who can’t do that won’t mend matters by dragging in Crooks, Crutches, or Conspiracies: for the sort of story he drags in will be just as lacking in Human interest as his space story.
About ‘escapism,’ never let that flea stick in your ear. I was liberated from it once & for all when a friend said ‘These critics are v. sensitive to the least hint of Escape. Now what class of men would one expect to be thus worked-up about Escape? – Jailers.’ Turn-key critics: people who want to keep the world in some ideological prison because a glimpse at any remote prospect would make their stuff seem less exclusively important.
Fantasy & S-F. is by miles the best. Some of the most serious satire of our age appears in it. What is called ‘serious’ literature now – Dylan Thomas & Pound and all that – is really the most frivolous. All the best. Yours C.S. Lewis
The two brief stories below were generated by ChatGPT in response to the request for a story about Lewis actually visiting Narnia.
In the quiet confines of his cozy Oxford study, C.S. Lewis sat by his flickering fireplace, a manuscript of his latest book on theology resting on his desk. The clock on the wall ticked away the minutes, marking the time as late evening gave way to the inky embrace of night. Lewis’s eyes grew heavy, and he decided it was time to retire to bed.
As he settled into his comfortable bed, he couldn’t shake the feeling of restlessness that had gripped him that evening. He stared at the wardrobe across the room, the same wardrobe that had once belonged to his grandparents and had always fascinated him as a child. He closed his eyes and drifted into a dream, or so he thought.
To his astonishment, Lewis found himself standing before the wardrobe, which now seemed more magnificent than ever. It loomed like a gateway to another world, and he couldn’t resist the urge to open its creaking doors. With a sense of wonder and trepidation, he stepped inside.
Instead of feeling wood beneath his feet, Lewis’s toes sank into soft, cool earth. He looked around and found himself standing in a dense, snow-covered forest. The air was crisp and carried a scent of pine and adventure. He realized that he was in Narnia.
Before him stood a lamppost, its light casting a warm and inviting glow. Lewis recognized it from his own stories. He couldn’t help but smile, realizing that he had somehow stepped into the world he had created through his Chronicles of Narnia.
As he ventured deeper into the forest, Lewis encountered creatures of myth and magic—talking animals, fauns, and even a majestic lion named Aslan. They welcomed him with open arms, for they knew him as the one who had brought their world to life through his words.
Days turned into weeks, and Lewis explored Narnia with childlike wonder. He sailed on the Dawn Treader, encountered the White Witch, and witnessed the coronation of King Caspian. He marveled at the beauty of Narnia’s landscapes, the bravery of its inhabitants, and the profound wisdom of Aslan.
Throughout his journey, Lewis engaged in deep conversations with the creatures of Narnia, discussing matters of faith, morality, and the nature of storytelling. Each encounter enriched his understanding of the Christian faith he had embraced in the real world.
Eventually, Lewis knew that he had to return to his own world. With a heavy heart, he stood before the same lamppost where he had first arrived and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he was back in his Oxford bedroom, the wardrobe standing silent and ordinary once more.
He sat at his desk, the manuscript still awaiting him, but now with a newfound sense of purpose and inspiration. The memories of Narnia, his journey, and the lessons he had learned would forever shape his writing and his faith.
C.S. Lewis had indeed traveled to Narnia, not in body, but in spirit and imagination, and his stories would continue to transport readers to that magical world for generations to come.
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Using the “regenerate” option with the same command: “write a story about C.S. Lewis really traveling to Narnia.”
Once upon a time in the quiet town of Oxford, C.S. Lewis, the renowned author and scholar, found himself embarking on a remarkable adventure. It was a crisp, autumn evening when he was invited to attend a secret gathering by a mysterious stranger who had slipped an enigmatic note under his door. The note simply read, “Come, Narnia awaits.”
Intrigued and a bit skeptical, Lewis decided to follow the call. He put on his overcoat, grabbed his umbrella, and stepped out into the cool night. The moon was a silvery crescent in the sky, casting an eerie glow on the cobblestone streets.
As he followed the directions given in the note, Lewis found himself walking through an old, secluded part of Oxford that he had never seen before. The air seemed to grow colder, and the world around him took on an otherworldly quality. Suddenly, he stumbled upon a large, ancient wardrobe tucked away in the corner of a park.
With a sense of déjà vu, Lewis remembered writing about such a wardrobe in one of his stories. He cautiously opened the wardrobe door, half-expecting it to be filled with coats and mothballs. To his astonishment, the wardrobe seemed to stretch and expand, and he found himself tumbling headfirst into a land covered in snow and surrounded by towering fir trees.
He had arrived in Narnia.
The moment his feet touched the snowy ground, Mr. Tumnus, the faun, rushed forward with a smile and exclaimed, “Welcome, dear friend! We’ve been waiting for you.”
Lewis was both bewildered and delighted. As he explored Narnia, he met talking animals, dwarves, and even the great lion, Aslan, whom he had created in his own stories. The world he had once imagined had come to life before his eyes.
Days turned into weeks, and Lewis became a beloved member of the Narnian community. He marveled at the beauty and wonder of this magical land. He listened to the tales of its inhabitants, learned from their wisdom, and shared stories of his own.
But as all adventures must come to an end, Lewis knew he couldn’t stay in Narnia forever. With a heavy heart, he approached the wardrobe once more and stepped back into his own world, leaving Narnia behind.
Back in Oxford, Lewis couldn’t help but wonder if his journey to Narnia had been a dream or a product of his imagination. Yet, the memories were vivid, and the lessons he had learned about faith, courage, and the power of imagination remained with him for the rest of his days.
And so, the story of C.S. Lewis’s extraordinary voyage to Narnia remained a secret he carried with him, a testament to the enduring magic of literature and the boundless possibilities of the human imagination.
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Variants of the sonnet and haiku produced by WriterHand follow.
The Oxford Inklings were a group of friends Whose conversations filled the air with wit and wit; Their words of wisdom still live on to this day, Their legacy of literature still stands tall and lit.
From C.S. Lewis to J.R.R. Tolkien They bantered and debated through the night; Their words and stories filled us all with joy, A source of inspiration, both dark and light.
From fantasy to science fiction, The Inklings had a way with words; Their genres and stories still stand the test of time, And their influence still continues to be heard.
The Oxford Inklings and their works Will live on in the hearts of many; Their words will inspire generations to come, A lasting legacy of literary plenty.
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The Inkling’s works shine A legacy of wisdom still In our hearts, forever
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The Oxford Inklings were a unique group Formed in the city of dreaming spires A gathering of friends with a shared goal To explore the depths of their desires
A fellowship of authors, poets, and more Including Tolkien, Lewis, and Williams Discussing literature, theology, and lore In the Eagle and Child’s hidden realms
From the Inklings came works of great fame The Chronicles of Narnia and The Lord of the Rings Legends of Middle Earth and tales of great shame A legacy that will last through the ages
The Oxford Inklings were a brilliant crew Inspiring writers and readers anew.
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Oxford Inklings’ lore In tales of fantasy and truth Lives on forever
Last week I wrote about “Learning Languages,” and I promised to follow up with a related theme – the creation of new words and languages. Let’s consider the simple matter first.
Adding New Words
Anyone can make up a new word. The problem is whether we have enough influence to have it adopted and used by another human being. (I add this qualifier to eliminate those who might attempt to skirt the question by simply training parrots to mimic the new word.) As Scientific Americanrelates,
When parrots are kept as pets, they learn their calls from their adoptive human social partners. Part of their appeal as pets is their ability to sing lower notes than smaller birds and so better reproduce human voices.
So, while you may be able to trick one of your parrots into repeating a novel “word,” that doesn’t count for our purposes here.
Likewise, any other birds who mimic speech, including musk ducks and corvids (ravens, crows and their ilk). In fact, let’s exclude all nonhuman “speakers” from consideration. After all, AZ Animals introduces readers to seven specific animals of different species (only one of which is avian) whose “forebrain is . . . responsible for some animals’ ability to mimic speech.”
So, animals aside, who embraces and disseminates newly invented new words? Some words, of course, find a partially prepared or receptive audience because they are imported from other tongues. The global influence of English makes other languages especially vulnerable to its influence, which can be deeply resented. The “corruption” of mother tongues sometimes elicits reactionary responses – such as Italy’s current effort to purge English from the Italian Republic.
And some Italians are extremely serious about the task, proposing fines up to €100000. (That is not a typo; at today’s exchange rate it would be $109,857.50.) Their animus toward English follows the path established by the French, who frequently default to Napoléon’s order to refer to Britain as “perfidious Albion.” The Académie Française goes so far as to repudiate specific words, including business, cash, digital, vintage, label, and deadline.
Vocabulary adopted from other nation’s may be “new” to their most recent users, but such importation is certainly not the same as fabricating novel words from the proverbial “whole cloth.”
True Neologisms
I wrote a moment ago that creating words is easy, but persuading others to use them is quite another thing. I’ve discussed this subject in the past, in “Create a Word Today” and “Creative Definitions.” Sadly – and fittingly – none of my personal neologisms have caught on.
Popular creative writers may, however, find their fancies adopted by larger audiences. Shakespeare’s “bedazzled” was birthed in The Taming of the Shrew. The “chortle” was first heard in Lewis Carol’s “Jabberwocky.” “Pandemonium” was revealed as the capital of Hell in Milton’s Paradise Lost. And the first “Nerd” was encountered in Dr. Seuss’ If I Ran the Zoo.
Some neologists were particularly prolific. How about these few additional examples from the Bard:
Bandit ~ Henry VI Dauntless ~ Henry VI Lackluster ~ As You Like It Dwindle ~ Henry IV
Oh, and Grammarly adds, “Shakespeare must have loved the prefix un- because he created or gave new meaning to more than 300 words that begin with it.” Can you imagine a world without:
Unaware ~ Venus & Adonis Uncomfortable ~ Romeo & Juliet Undress ~ Taming of the Shrew Unearthly ~ The Winter’s Tale Unreal ~ Macbeth
Before moving on, it would be fair to note that some voices consider this achievement by Shakespeare to be “a common myth.”
It turns out that Shakespeare’s genius was not in coining new words – it was in hearing new words and writing them down before they became widespread, and in wringing new meaning out of old, worn-out words: turning “elbow” into a verb and “where” into a noun. He didn’t invent the words, but he knew how to use them better than anyone.
C.S. Lewis was not a philologist, but he did create a few novel words. The Inkling scholar who pens A Pilgrim in Narnia has written on this subject here and here.
J.R.R. Tolkien was no slouch at inventing English words himself. Some which now reside in our common vocabulary include hobbit and orc. The latter he derived from an Old English word, orcþyrs, a devouring monster associated with Hell. More surprisingly, Tolkien created the modern word “tween,” albeit in the context of hobbits, who lived longer lives than we.
At that time Frodo was still in his tweens, as the hobbits called the irresponsible twenties between childhood and coming of age at thirty-three.
Envisioning novel words is relatively simple, but inventing an entire language, is an infinitely more complex challenge. The universally acknowledged master is J.R.R. Tolkien, whose Elvish tongue has become a “living” language.* But he was not alone in building internally consistent linguistic systems. Albeit, no philologist came near to Tolkien’s expertise, which included elaborate etymologies.
Before considering Tolkien himself, we will note several other efforts of a similar kind. And, following a discussion of Tolkien, we will conclude with a note about his good friend, C.S. Lewis. For, despite the fact that Lewis was not a philologist himself, it is interesting to note that he too dabbled in creatio linguarum.
Inventing New Languages
Some “constructed languages” are formed with practical purposes. Esperanto, birthed in 1887, incorporated elements from existing languages and was envisioned as a common “international auxiliary language.” It boasts its own flag, and claims to be the native language of approximately a thousand people.
One curious use of Esperanto came in its adoption by the United States Army as the “Aggressor Language” used in twentieth century wargames. The curious can download a copy of the now-rescinded Field Manual 30-101-1, which provided guidance for its usage “which will enhance intelligence play and add realism to field exercises.”
Another genuine constructed language is Interlingua. Developed between 1937 and 1951, it is based primarily on the shared (and simplified) grammar and vocabulary of Western European languages.
In addition to languages constructed for international use, there are a variety of tongues created for fictional applications. “To learn Klingon or Esperanto” describes how linguistic anthropologist Christine Schreyer “invented several languages for the movie industry: the Kryptonian language for ‘Man of Steel,’ Eltarian for ‘Power Rangers,’ Beama (Cro-Magnon) for “Alpha” and Atlantean for ‘Zack Snyder’s Justice League.’” While none of these could ever rival the languages of Middle Earth, her bona fide linguistic credentials place her in a context similar to J.R.R. Tolkien. The interview reveals how Schreyer balances her creative impulses with her anthropological concerns.
I teach a course on linguistic anthropology, in which I give my students the task of creating new languages as they learn about the parts of languages. Around the time I started doing that, “Avatar” came out. The Na’vi language from that movie was very popular at the time and had made its way into many news stories about people learning the language – and doing it quickly.
My other academic research is on language revitalization, with indigenous or minority communities. One of the challenges we have is it takes people a long time to learn a language. I was interested to know what endangered-language communities could learn from these created-language fan communities, to learn languages faster.
Other fictional languages that exist include R’lyehian (from Lovecraft’s nightmare cosmos), Lapine (from Watership Down), Fremen, the Arabic/alien blending (from Dune), Parseltongue (ala Harry Potter), Dothraki (from Game of Thrones), Ewokese, etc. (from Star Wars), Goa’uld and others (from Stargate), Minbari and more (from Babylon 5), and the gutturally combative Klingon and others (from Star Trek). This brief list is far from exhaustive.
Tolkien, Lewis & New Languages
The languages forged by J.R.R. Tolkien are unrivaled by any conceivable measure one might employ. They are no mere stage dressing, like some of the aforementioned examples. Even those with developed vocabularies and consistent grammar fall far short of Tolkien’s creation. In terms of the histories of his languages, his diligent etymologies beggar all other such efforts. Of course, for Tolkien this was no competition. He was driven to make his languages as flawless – not “perfect,” but realistic – as humanly possible. It was a linchpin in his subcreative labor.
As a skilled calligrapher, Tolkien devised unique alphabets to complement his languages. The letters in his alphabets were not devised as mere adornments. Tolkien left that to lesser imaginations. Nor were his scripts restricted to Tolkien’s fiction. The Tolkien Estate offers an insightful essay on “Writing Systems.”
Tolkien also used invented scripts that were not associated with any of his fictional worlds. An early example is the Privata Kodo Skauta (Private Scout Code), which appears in a still unpublished notebook from 1909 called the Book of the Foxrook. This makes use of a phonetic code-alphabet, as well as a number of ideographic symbols representing full words. . . .
Toward the end of his life, Tolkien made use of the New English Alphabet, a phonetic script that combined the logical structural principles of the Angerthas and the Tengwar with letters that looked more like Greek or Latin. The alphabet has not yet been published in full, but examples can be seen in . . . J.R.R. Tolkien: Artist & Illustrator.
The footnote below links to some resources for those who would like to learn how to speak the languages of the elves. By way of help with pronunciations, remember the following advice:
Use an Italian accent to pull off Quenya speech patterns. In general, you can kind of sound Elvish – even without following the rules of the language – by applying an Italian accent when pronouncing Quenyan words. Native Italian speakers tend to use speech patterns from their native tongues to interpret English words, which can make your Elvish sound practiced even when it isn’t.
Speak with an Irish or Scottish accent to pull off a natural Sindarin accent. Irish and Scottish speakers tend to speak English by emphasizing sounds in the front of a word regardless of the standard pronunciation. This is a pretty good method for pronouncing Sindarin words, since the vast majority of them stress the first syllable.
For those who want to quickly capture some Elvish script without the effort of studying, consider the English to Elvish online translator, which is offered by the company that fashioned The One Ring for Peter Jackson’s cinematic epics. I decided to test the translation tool and posed the question: “Does AI translation of English to Quenya actually work?” The software swiftly complied.
It looks elegantly correct, but unfortunately, I’m unable to personally verify its accuracy. And I must confess to modest trepidation since the site advises:
“USE CAUTION BEFORE COMMITTING TO ANY TATTOOS, INSCRIPTIONS AND ENGRAVINGS” [triple emphasis in original].
The Jens Hansen site sells jewelry, as befits the fasioners of The One Ring. In addition to hosting the translator, they offer a free pdf document called Elvish 101 in 5 Minutes. It’s an interesting document, but it reveals a limitation I assume is shared by the online generator. It is a resource for transliterating, not translating, words. Not quite the same thing . . . but the script still looks elegant.
Tolkien was the master of creating languages for his subcreation, but C.S. Lewis also used the same technique in the writing of his Space Trilogy. Each work focuses on an individual planet in our solar system, which is referred to in the books as the Field of Arbol.
While a number of languages have developed over time, the original language, known as Old Solar, is retained by some, and learned by the series’ protagonist Dr. Elwin Ransom. Ransom is a philologist at Cambridge, and as he is modeled after Tolkien, it’s no surprise his first name means “elf friend.”
In Perelandra, Ransom describes how a language he learned on Mars was once shared by all.
“It appears we were quite mistaken in thinking Hressa-Hlab the peculiar speech of Mars. It is really what may be called Old Solar, Hlab-Eribol-ef-Cordi. . . . there was originally a common speech for all rational creatures inhabiting the planets of our system: those that were ever inhabited, I mean – what the eldila (angels) call the Low Worlds. . . .
That original speech was lost on Thulcandra, our own world, when our whole tragedy [the Fall] took place. No human language now known in the world is descended from it.”
Lewis’ use of Old Solar is sparing, but a partial lexicon can be found at FrathWiki. There, for example, you will learn that “honodraskrud” is Old Solar for a “Groundweed; an edible pinkish-white kind of weed, found all over the handramit” of Malacandra (Mars).
The accomplishments of Tolkien and Lewis are difficult to compare. These two brilliant scholars shared a great many interests, but wrote with far different goals. We rightfully expect genius to vary between such individuals. This is well illustrated by their differing treatments of constructed languages, as Martha Sammons describes so well in War of the Fantasy Worlds.
Tolkien began with invented languages and then developed an elaborate mythology to create a world where his languages could exist. Lewis’s works began with mental pictures; he would then find the appropriate ‘‘form’’ to tie together the images. . . .
[Tolkien’s] penchant for historical and linguistic detail is unparalleled. In contrast . . . Lewis uses just enough language, geography, and science to make his novels believable.
While either approach may inspire those among us who aspire to writing, we best avoid attempting to emulate either author. Best, I believe, to compose our epics with the language that most naturally flows from our pen.
* While some fans of Klingon and Na’vi may learn to speak in those tongues, the students of the languages of Arda, typically possess greater ardor for the languages of Middle Earth. For example, an online guide to learning Elven languages begins by answering the question, “why study Elvish?” And a free online course for learning Quenya is offered here. Among the Quenya dictionaries, the finest free example is available at Quenya-English Dictionary English-Quenya Dictionary.
C.S. Lewis possessed a gift for languages. Although he was not a philologist like his friend J.R.R. Tolkien, Lewis was well educated and read and spoke a variety of languages.
In fact, when he and his wife played Scrabble, they allowed for the use of words from any language! For the record, though, he does confess to a German professor that his grasp of that tongue is “wretched.”
The only bona fide genius I’ve known was a classmate at the University of Washington. While I was struggling with classical Greek, in preparation for seminary, at the age of 23 Bruce already possessed four master’s degrees and was closing in on his PhD in Linguistics. He spoke fifteen languages, but could read nineteen.
Of course, that is still a small portion of the 7,168 languages Ethnologue tells us are in use today.
This enormous number – which doesn’t include unknown languages spoken among untouched people groups – accounts for the fact that thousands of Christians are laboring now in groups such as Lutheran Bible Translators to make the Scriptures available to all people.
Sometimes this involves creating a written language itself, where only an oral version exists. The largest such organization, Wycliffe Global Alliance, reports that “Bible translation is currently happening in 2,846 languages in 157 countries.”
While the Bible’s translation is certainly of utmost importance, it is wonderful to know that other valuable literature is also made available to readers who could not decipher the language in which it was originally composed.
Lewis, in fact, was a translator in his own right. Beyond the literal translation of works from one tongue to another, Lewis also functioned as a “translator” of complex concepts and eternal truths. I once described this as C.S. Lewis’ bilingualism.
How many extremely intelligent and well educated people do you know . . . who can actually communicate with those of us possessing normal human intelligence? That talent is a rarity.
And it is precisely what makes C.S. Lewis such an unusual man. He was brilliant. Yet he could communicate with the common person – even the child – just as easily as he conversed with his fellow university dons.
C.S. Lewis mastered a number of modern languages, but it was his study of historic languages that especially inspired him. Icelandic, with its similarity to Old Norse, is one example about which I have written.
. . . J.R.R. Tolkien and his friend C.S. Lewis established a group called Kolbitár which was devoted to reading Icelandic and Norse sagas. The word itself means “coal biter” and refers to those in a harsh environment drawing so close to the fire’s warmth they can almost bite the coals.
Another example is Old English. Along with Middle English, birthed by the Norman Conquest, these were essential elements of his training as one of the preeminent English scholars of Oxford and Cambridge. And these languages were not merely dusty relics. I encourage the curious to read “C.S. Lewis’s Unpublished Letter in Old English,” which appeared in the journal VII.
In 1926 C.S. Lewis wrote his friend Nevill Coghill a letter in Old English, a language also known as Anglo-Saxon. Unreadable for most current readers of Lewis, it understandably does not appear in his three-volume Collected Letters.
In the essay, George Musacchio provides an illuminating outline of Lewis’ diverse expertise with languages, both “foreign and domestic.” Lewis began the letter to his friend with the following salutation.
“Leowis ceorl hateð gretan Coghill eoorl luflice ond freondlice.” Which translates as: “Lewis the churl bids to greet Coghill the earl.”
Is English Really that Difficult to Learn?
English is reputed to be one of the most challenging languages to learn. (More on this in a moment.) For example, the simple sentence which follows consists of a mere seven words, but holds seven different meanings, dependent upon which word is emphasized.
Rosetta Stone answers the question of how hard it is to learn English by saying “it depends on your first language.”
In addition to the fact that “spelling is a poor indicator of pronunciation,” English possesses numerous “specific rules,” and complements this burden with the fact that “some rules have lots of exceptions.” The complexity is due to the language’s history, which also gave rise to its mammoth vocabulary.
English has a lot of words—Webster’s English Dictionary includes approximately 470,000 entries, and it’s estimated that the broader English vocabulary may include around a million words. . . .
English has such a broad vocabulary because it’s a blend of several different root languages. While English is a West Germanic language in its sounds and grammar, much of the vocabulary also stems from Romance languages, such as Latin, Italian, Spanish, and Portuguese.
One result of combining these various root languages is that the English vocabulary includes a ton of synonyms . . . And unfortunately, most of these synonyms aren’t fully interchangeable, so the exact word you choose does have an impact on the overall meaning.
It turns out English doesn’t even rank in the top three most difficult languages for the speakers of the five largest language groups. The ranked listings do include, however, Arabic, Japanese, Russian, and Mandarin.
So, let’s reverse the question for a moment. Which languages are the most difficult for a native English speaker to learn? Unbabel lists ten. Fortunately, only one of them is on my wish list.
Babbel Magazine has an article approaching that question from the opposite end. Which language is easiest for English speakers to learn.
This may come as a surprise, but we have ranked Norwegian as the easiest language to learn for English speakers. Norwegian is a member of the Germanic family of languages — just like English! This means the languages share quite a bit of vocabulary, such as the seasons vinter and sommer (we’ll let you figure out those translations).
Another selling point for Norwegian: the grammar is pretty straightforward, with only one form of each verb per tense. And the word order closely mimics English. For example, “Can you help me?” translates to Kan du hjelpe meg? — the words are in the same order in both languages, so mastering sentence structure is a breeze!
Finally, you’ll have a lot more leeway with pronunciation when learning Norwegian. That’s because there are a vast array of different accents in Norway and, therefore, more than one “correct way” to pronounce words.
An article I wrote seven years ago hints at that same conclusion. I made this informative, and mildly threatening, illustration for “Norse Linguistic Invasion.”
Oxford Royale Academy lists several reasons why English is especially challenging to new students. The following issue of “irregularities” also plagues countless native speakers.
One of the hardest things about English is that although there are rules, there are lots of exceptions to those rules – so just when you think you’ve got to [come to] grips with a rule, something comes along to shatter what you thought you knew by contradicting it.
A good example is the rule for remembering whether a word is spelt “ie” or “ei:” “I before E except after C.” Thus “believe” and “receipt.”
But this is English – it’s not as simple as that. What about “science?” Or “weird?” Or “seize?”
There are loads of irregular verbs, too, such as “fought”, which is the past tense of “fight”, while the past tense of “light” is “lit.” So learning English isn’t just a question of learning the rules – it’s about learning the many exceptions to the rules.
The numerous exceptions make it difficult to apply existing knowledge and use the same principle with a new word, so it’s harder to make quick progress.
And even some of the normative “rules” are difficult to grasp. One example is that there’s a very specific order that adjectives must be listed ahead of a noun. According to Rosetta Stone,
The adjective order is: quantity, opinion, size, age, shape, color, origin/material, qualifier, and then noun. For example, “I love my big old yellow dog.” Saying these adjectives in any other order, like “I love my yellow old big dog,” will sound wrong, even when otherwise the sentences are exactly the same and communicate the same thing. Keeping rules like this in mind can be tricky, and it takes a lot of practice to get it right.
Adjective order is seldom considered, in part because it’s not considered good writing to string too many such words together. But apparently there are right and wrong ways to organize any such list.
Royal Order of Adjectives
Most students aren’t taught about adjective order in school and instead learn it through listening and reading. In English, the rules regarding adjective order are more specific than they are in other languages; that is why saying adjectives in a specific order sounds “right,” and deviating from that order makes a statement sound “wrong,” even if it’s otherwise grammatically perfect.
And, since we’re talking about English, even this Royal Order of Adjectives rule has exceptions!
The hierarchy is not absolute, and there is some wiggle room among the “fact” categories – size, age, and so on – in the middle.
Native speakers are often delighted when they learn about this law and discover how flawlessly they apply it. It even went viral in 2016 . . . The tweet attached a paragraph by etymologist Mark Forsyth . . . giving an example that uses all the categories according to the OSASCOMP hierarchy: “a lovely little old rectangular green French silver whittling knife.”
I do not ever recall being taught (or reading on my own) about the “Royal Order of Adjectives.” Nevertheless, I don’t feel too embarrassed at acknowledging my previous ignorance, since even Lewis himself was comfortable in expressing gratitude for being introduced to new words. For example, when he thanked Dorothy Sayers for enlarging his vocabulary with her work on Dante.
So, is English all that challenging? Well, C.S. Lewis did his part to make it less daunting, joining a public debate in Britain, with an unexpected argument. Discussing English’s previously noted problem with inconsistencies and confusion in spelling, the don offered a simple solution.
In a column on Lewis and the history of words, I included an extended passage from a letter Lewis wrote challenging a contemporary British effort to “reform” spelling. Surprisingly, he argued against the necessity for uniformity in spelling. After explaining why our language functions as it does, he advocates:
As things are, surely Liberty is the simple and inexpensive ‘Reform’ we need? This would save children and teachers thousands of hours’ work.
Surely all but the most diehard grammarians would be sympathetic to his argument.
Next week I plan to write about another linguistic matter closely associated with the Inklings – the creation of new words and languages.
If books should not be judged by their covers, how much more true is it that we should avoid judging people by their initial appearance?
We don’t want others to be hasty in determining who we are, right? We need to take some time to get to know people before coming to “conclusions” about what they are like.
Yet we still tend to look at someone and – right away – assess whether they are trustworthy or not. I confess it is sometimes challenging for me to maintain an open mind. For example, teardrop tattoos (especially when accompanied by neck ink that combines letters and numbers), make me nervous.
First impressions are usually by their very nature superficial. Which means they often prove to be wrong. That’s true about people . . . and books.
Lewis scholar Dale Nelson recently sent me an interesting review of the book The Inklings, written by Humphrey Carpenter in 1978. The fascinating thing about the piece was that it was written by Lord David Cecil (1902-1986), who was himself an Inkling.
One of the things which drew my attention was his physical description of several of the members, especially C.S. Lewis. Without citing the maxim, he declares how misleading first impressions may be.
[Charles] Williams was the most obviously odd. Very tall, and indisputably ugly with a high forehead and with gleaming spectacles, he yet diffused a curious charm that came from an enthusiastic warmth of spirit united to a comic lack of inhibition. . . .
Lewis at first sight appeared less unusual; stocky, red-faced, loud-voiced, he might indeed have been taken for an innkeeper or even a butcher.
Such a mistake would not have displeased him, he liked to think of himself as representing the common man, in contrast to the sophisticated intellectual.
These observations were interesting, but there was something far more thought-provoking in the (excellent, by the way) review. More about that in a moment. First let’s return for a moment to the issue of book covers.
What about the Cover of the Book You are Writing?
I discussed covers, and Lewis’ thoughts thereon, in this post.
It’s unsurprising that with all of their many reprintings, the writings of C.S. Lewis have been published with a wide range of covers. Some of this can be attributed to the artistic fads of the decade in which particular editions saw print. More important, I believe, are the arbitrary tastes of publishers.
When it comes to self-publishing, authors are in complete control over the image that graces their literary creations. While I make no pretense of being an artist, I must confess at being shocked by the shoddy quality of many such works. Surely they are aware that the very best of writing can be marred by dreadful packaging. By the same token, even weak literature has received wider dissemination than it merited, due to stunning or alluring graphics.
The internet is filled with posts on this subject. These are representative:
The reality is that every person who steps into a book shop or browses books online is judging books by their cover, even if only subconsciously. I’m not saying that the judgment is always correct. Some books have amazing covers but are comprised of some pretty bad writing. I’d guess that many more amazing books are hiding behind bad cover art. The challenge is to get readers to pick up your book in the first place. That’s where the artwork comes in.
Another writer contends that potential readers do consider a host of matters. In “Why ‘Don’t Judge a Book by its Cover’ is Bad Advice,” the writer nevertheless admits it is the single most important element in winning an audience (short of a celebrity endorsement).
Readers are going to keep on reading and judging based on a whole host of criteria. The cover is just one of the many factors that are taken into account. Like other aspects of a book, it holds valuable information about the story kept inside.
Disregarding it is bad advice. Instead, why not try judging a book by its cover? Maybe next time you peruse the shelves of your neighborhood bookstore or scroll through the numerous titles listed online, you can select books purely based on the cover.
You never know, that could tell you everything you need to give that book a chance.
Covers are not the only factor in enhancing your book’s reception. Consider as well the nature of the paper in printed copies, as I discussed in “The Ugliest Book,” about a Mayan codex.
Now, back to the book reviewer.
David Cecil’s Thoughts on His Own Identity as an Inkling
After graduating from Oxford, Cecil briefly taught Rhetoric in London, before returning to Oxford, where he taught English. During his career, he wrote various works, including a number of literary biographies. These include: The Stricken Deer or The Life of Cowper, English Poets, Hardy the Novelist.
David Cecil was an accomplished man, and a true Oxford Inkling. The curious aspect is how, as the son of a marquess (bearing a courtesy title), socializing with a different caste, so to speak, would bond so well with the rest of the Inklings. Fortunately, Cecil briefly explains why he valued the fellowship in this book review.
Usually one of them would read aloud a piece from some book he was writing. . . . The meetings were also occasionally attended by persons who did not share The Inklings’ distinctive point of view but who liked spending an evening in their company.
I myself was one of these; I found such evenings enjoyable and stimulating; and all the more because the spirit of The Inklings was in piquant contrast to those of the Oxford circles in which I spent most of my time.
A final gift to those who treasure Lewis and his companions comes in Cecil’s incisive understanding of their unifying bond.
The qualities . . . that gave The Inklings their distinctive personality were not primarily their opinion; rather it was a feeling for literature, which united, in an unusual way, scholarship and imagination.
Their standard of learning was very high. To study a book in translation or without a proper knowledge of its historic background would have been to them unthinkable; they were academic in the best sense of the word.
But – and this is what made them different from most academics – they also read imaginatively. The great books of the past were to them living in the same way as the work of a contemporary. . . .
Simply they read their books in the spirit in which they were written. And they could communicate their sense of this spirit to their hearers so that, for these also, these great books sprang to fresh, full life.
This was a unique achievement in the Oxford of their time.
It appears the Inklings would be among the last to judge a book, or a person, by their cover.
If you would like to learn more about C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien, and their fellow Inklings, a free series of five lectures has just been produced. I am in the midst of the first, introductory lecture, and am eager to listen to the entire series.
You can receive links to the series from Hillsdale College by completing a small form at this link.
The subjects addressed in the series include:
“Who Are the Inklings?” by Bradley J. Birzer
“C.S. Lewis’s The Abolition of Man” by Michael Ward
“J.R.R. Tolkien’s Scholarship” by Michael Drout
“Themes of Lewis’s Fiction” by Jason Lepojärvi
“Tolkien and the Christian Imagination” by Holly Ordway
Hillsdale College is an independent Christian institution, founded in 1844. They currently have 1,573 undergraduates, “representing 49 states, D.C., and 13 foreign countries,” complemented by more than one hundred graduate students.
Several years ago, they offered a free online course about C.S. Lewis, which we promoted on Mere Inkling in this post.
That course – along with thirty more – is still available at no cost. (Donations are welcome, of course.) You can learn about all of these courses here.
And, if you’re in the mood for reading a free issue of Christian History on the subject of “Heaven and the Christian Imagination,” look no further than this link. (The issue includes several references to the thought of C.S. Lewis.)
The halls of academia are a curious place. Dark wooden walls and well-worn stairways hearken back to legions of students and professors who have invested portions of their lives in the academies’ life. Some of us are drawn to the air of knowledge and residue of research that made them what they are.
At the same time, however, many universities have become parodies of what they once were. Some self-important leaders and faculty cry out for satire and parody. As one liberal American journalist, a defender of academic elitism, admitted: “academics can be condescending and arrogant.”
Through the years I’ve known many brilliant men and women who retained their humility. Sadly, I’ve also encountered many whose view of themselves was so exaggerated that one could only respond with disbelief. Do they really believe no one sees through the façade?
Rather than write a longer column here, I want to provide a link to an unusual article I recently wrote related to this subject. If you have a sense of humor, and are not afflicted with academic grandiosity, please check it out. It appeared this past week in the latest issue of CSL: The Bulletin of the New York C.S. Lewis Society.
CSL is a small but mighty (think Reepicheep) publication. It’s worth subscribing to, even for those of us thousands of miles from their regular meetings in the Empire State.
My article is brief, but it includes “the Mere Oxford Inkling Erudition Chart,” which promises countless hours of educational entertainment.
The people my satire seeks to unmask are the type of academics who attempted to make Oxford and Cambridge Universities so inhospitable to C.S. Lewis. Read this interview with one of his former student who critiques the opinions of lesser minds.
The BBC [invited him to broadcast the] talks that ultimately became Mere Christianity. The BBC was astounded by the response to these talks. As you know, Mere Christianity has never been out of print since.
He then became very unpopular with the senior faculty at Magdalen College. Magdalen was a godless college and a very famous college, very atheistical. . . . So [Lewis] got a rough ride there. He never made professor at Oxford.
So much for the civility one would expect in such environs.
Do C.S. Lewis (1898-1963) and Roald Dahl (1916-1990) have anything in common, besides authoring books enjoyed by children?
Looking back, I must have been deprived of opportunities to read common children’s books. I recall my mom having many of Dr. Seuss’ classics, but don’t remember more advanced works such as those of Beatrix Potter or E.B. White.
I suppose that is why Roald Dahl’s name means little to me. By the time I was aware of his popular works, I was too old to appreciate them. Added to that was my intense dislike for the cinematic presentation of his Chocolate Factory, which has permanently (and probably unfairly) soured my impression of the poor man.
In Matilda, published in 1988, Dahl offers a rather curious homage to the Inklings. The young protagonist offers to her teacher the following observations.
“I like The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe,” Matilda said. “I think Mr. C.S. Lewis is a very good writer. But he has one failing. There are no funny bits in his books.”
“You are right there,” Miss Honey said.
“There aren’t many funny bits in Mr. Tolkien either,” Matilda said.
Curiously, a number of people have offered their evaluations of Lewis and Dahl, vis-à-vis one another. Author Grudge Match: Roald Dahl vs. C.S. Lewis invited diverse contributions to the debate eight years ago on LibraryThing.
A Christian blogger offers a faith-based appraisal on an entertaining website called “Like but better.” It’s entitled “How C.S Lewis is like Roald Dahl, but better (and Aslan is like Willy Wonka, but better).”
C.S Lewis is serious about what Dahl jokes about; even as both want us to pursue a childlike wonder and joy. For Lewis these enchanted stories and our sense of wonder are small stories reflecting on the big story — the ‘myth that became history’ — the death and resurrection of Jesus.
A BBC Culture article is quite critical of Dahl, despite his popularity. The introduction to “The Dark Side of Roald Dahl” aptly describes the essay.
Roald Dahl was an unpleasant man who wrote macabre books – and yet children around the world adore them. Perhaps this shouldn’t surprise us, writes Hephzibah Anderson.
An article by a Jewish journalist refers to both of the authors discussed here. It describes his bitter introduction to the major flaws of an author whose work he enjoyed as a child. “Why I Hope My Kids Never Read Roald Dahl” is, for me, most valuable for the way in which the journalist regards the faith which underlies the tales of Narnia.
As a nerdy Jewish kid in Indiana and Tennessee in the late 1970s and 1980s, I had far better relationships with books than I did with other kids. If I liked a book, I read it again, and again and again.
And so it was with Roald Dahl’s “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.” Dahl’s protagonists Charlie and later James (of the “Giant Peach”) both provided early models for how to find a better way through a hostile world where I always felt like an outsider.
Given that personal history, the announcement that Netflix has acquired Dahl’s entire catalog and plans a robust lineup of multimedia adaptations ought to feel like good news. . . .
Seeing his work still celebrated fills me with sadness, leaving me caught between attachment to something that mattered to me as a boy and commitment to the principles that, I hope, make me the man I am today.
Because I know that Roald Dahl hated Jewish people like me.
There are cases where it’s complicated to ascribe modern values to figures from the past and as a reader, my feelings, my emotions, are just not going to be consistent. I don’t share C.S. Lewis’ religious views . . . J.R.R. Tolkien’s “Lord of the Rings” trilogy is, I’m sad to say, bound up in long histories of racism.But my childhood copies of their books still occupy my shelves, some missing covers and pages, and I bought new copies for my kids and tried – with mixed success – to share my love of those stories with them. It’s hardly new for readers of one generation to struggle with the views of authors from another.But Dahl is different. He passed away in 1990, only 31 years ago. And we know he was an anti-Semite because he said so.
While I would challenge Perry’s modest critiques of the Inklings, I am delighted he is able to look beyond his adult disappointment with their imperfections to commend them to his own children. As for Dahl . . . this article reinforces my lack of regret in being unfamiliar with his work.
Enough, now, of their differences. I promised readers a surprising similarity between the two British authors.
And What Is Their Unusual Commonality?
In 1951, C.S. Lewis was approached by Prime Minister Churchill’s office to accept an honor occasionally bestowed upon renowned literary figures. He was invited to become a Commander of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire. Lewis declined, because he felt the political implications might overshadow the nonpartisan spirit of his writings. He was, however, honored to have been offered the honour.
This decision brings us to the peculiar similarity between the two writers. It turns out that Roald Dahl also passed up the invitation to join this chivalric order.
Literary names were prominent amongst those to have said no to CBEs, OBEs and knighthoods in the annual New Year or Birthday Honours list, with Dahl, Lewis, and Huxley . . . joined by fellow naysayers Eleanor Farjeon, the children’s author, the poets Philip Larkin and Robert Graves, who said no to both a CBE and a CH (Order of the Companions honour), literary critic F.R. Leavis, Booker [Prize] winner Stanley Middleton and the authors J.B. Priestley and Evelyn Waugh.
An aspiring literary historian might do well to research whether and why successful writers might be more inclined to dismiss such an honor than other British citizens. I wonder if that inclination would carry over to other nationalities or cultures.
Ultimately, I assume most writers care less about receiving honors, than having their work read. And, perchance, having their literary efforts improve the lives of one or two others along the way. [This statement inspired vigorous debate when I shared this draft with members of my critique group.]
That desire – to enrich lives – is what motivates me. I believe it is also what inspired C.S. Lewis. And I know we are not alone.
Yes, we found hobbits in our yard, when we weren’t even looking. True, I have a sign on our property welcoming “all true Narnians,” but true fans of the Oxford Inklings will recognize that hobbits are actually residents of Middle Earth.
I suppose, though, that doesn’t mean that Middle Earth’s hobbits, elves, and Ents can’t be Narnians at heart. As for dwarves and humans, they already reside in Narnia and are welcome here even if they are traveling through on their way to Valinor, in the Blessed Realm.
To be honest, it wasn’t actual hobbits we discovered. It is a small field of Eryngium planum, which is also known to botanists as Blue Hobbit, Sea Holly.
Noted for its petite size, Eryngium planum ‘Blue Hobbit’ (Sea Holly) is a compact perennial boasting a profusion of spiny, egg-shaped, purplish-blue flower heads throughout the summer.
They are produced on silver-blue stems and stand high above the basal rosette of deeply toothed, smooth textured leaves. Its beautiful texture, unique color, long-lasting flowering, easy care and remarkable qualities as cut flowers make it a favorite of florists, gardeners, bees and butterflies.
The plant’s size is the apparent premise for its popular name. I mean, there were Blue Wizards in Middle Earth, but no blue hobbits I can recall.
According to an interesting article in a Canadian newspaper, there are several plants “eagerly adopted by Tolkien fans, at least ones with a love of houseplants.”
The author describes his new acquisition named in honor of Gollum, a Stoor, which was an old breed of hobbits that preferred riversides and marshes. Gollum, of course, devolved from his life as Sméagol, due to the corrupting influence of the Ring.
Despite the name, the plant is kinda cute. Its full name is Crassula ovata ‘Gollum,’ and if you’re keeping up with your botanical Latin, or still have the tag stuck in one of your houseplants, you’ll know that Crassula ovata is the jade plant.
J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis loved nature. And, not just from a distance. Their frequent cross country walks were of great delight to both scholars.
Lewis’ fascination with gardens began in his childhood. In his autobiography, he includes “a garden (which then seemed large)” as one of his initial “blessings” (Surprised by Joy). He also relates a pivotal experience in the development of his imagination.
Once in those very early days my brother brought into the nursery the lid of a biscuit tin which he had covered with moss and garnished with twigs and flowers so as to make it a toy garden or a toy forest. That was the first beauty I ever knew. What the real garden had failed to do, the toy garden did.
It made me aware of nature—not, indeed, as a storehouse of forms and colors but as something cool, dewy, fresh, exuberant. I do not think the impression was very important at the moment, but it soon became important in memory.
As long as I live my imagination of Paradise will retain something of my brother’s toy garden. And every day there were what we called “the Green Hills;” that is, the low line of the Castlereagh Hills which we saw from the nursery windows. They were not very far off but they were, to children, quite unattainable. They taught me longing—Sehnsucht; made me for good or ill, and before I was six years old, a votary of the Blue Flower.
The blue flower to which Lewis refers is not the Blue Hobbit. It is actually a symbol which grew to reference the Romanticism movement. Among other things, such as an emphasis on intense emotion, Romanticism fostered an idealized image of nature. In an essay about the German writer Novalis,* Norwegian-American author Hjalmar Hjorth Boyesen (1848-1895)⁑ offers the following description.
In the very first chapter we meet with all the conventional machinery of Romantic fiction: night, moonlight, dreams, and the longing for the blue flower. This blue flower is the watchword and the sacred symbol of the school. It is meant to symbolize the deep and nameless longings of a poet’s soul.
Romantic poetry invariably deals with longing; not a definite, formulated desire for some attainable object, but a dim, mysterious aspiration, a trembling unrest, a vague sense of kinship with the infinite, and a consequent dissatisfaction with every form of happiness which the world has to offer. The object of the Romantic longing, therefore, so far as it has any object, is the ideal—the ideal of happiness . . .
The blue flower, like the absolute ideal, is never found in this world . . .
The blue flower, as a metaphor, may remain out of reach, but selective breeding of cultivars has provided us with genuine examples in our modern era. And, since cultivars are named according to binomial nomenclature – which uses their scientific name, followed by a vernacular epithet – we may be introduced to more Inkling plants in the future.
I imagine both C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien would be pleased to know that people have commemorated their literary creations with lovely flora. Learning of their existence, I’m thrilled to have Blue Hobbit spreading across our property. Perhaps it’s time to add a Gollum Jade plant to our home?
* For some reason, Romantic poet Georg Philipp Friedrich Freiherr von Hardenberg (1772- 1801), was commonly known by his pen name, Novalis, rather than his given name.
What kind of writer are you? A poet, journalist, essayist or, perhaps, a minimalist? (By “minimalist” I mean someone who writes the bare minimum they have to.)
Many readers of Mere Inkling are, in fact, writers in their own right. Even ignoring the profusion of texts ricocheting around the globe (which are, in fact, literary creations), a fair number of Mere Inkling subscribers have blogs of their own.
The preeminent position of physical letters as the medium for correspondence has been usurped by email. People still write to one another, but – to the woe of the struggling United States Postal Service – they do it digitally.
More serious writers gravitate toward a varieties of genres. Often we try our hands at the sort of literature we prefer reading. That’s why I seldom write poetry. (And, when I do, it’s usually because I’m consciously stretching myself.)
There’s a reason I can call poetry the highest form of artistic expression without thinking twice about it. And even though most Americans today don’t acknowledge the art form all that much, you’d be hard-pressed to find a sensible person who doesn’t respect or – if only from a distance – admire the magic in it.*
I guess I am one of the Americans who doesn’t possess a special reverence for poetry. And, as for “admiring the magic in it,” please. Wait, I don’t desire to offend you poets out there. Unless, of course, you consider yourself better than everyone else. In that case, consider my words a gentle rebuke (and encouragement to consider the virtue of humility).
I hope that everyone will read on, and forgive me for maligning “the highest form of artistic expression.”
A Less Honored Literary Genre
I write nonfiction, unsurprising for someone who is basically a historian. Theologically, I neglect the conjecture of systematic theological considerations and focus on what’s usually called “practical theology.” It too, is unpretentious, and intended to make sense to “regular” people.
Recent years have found me dabbling in the memoir, or versions of autobiography, as I consider the potential value of such documents to my descendants.
One arena I’ve never really considered is biography. I suspect it would be a comfortable literary form, for a historian. I mean, you’re simply telling the story of a single life, relating facts and explaining the context of various events. That doesn’t sound too challenging, does it?
I suppose almost anyone could write a biography. The question is, could we write a good one?
Writing a Biography
I have been thinking about this subject ever since my research for my previous post introduced me to the work of David Cecil,⁑ one of the Oxford Inklings who shared the company of C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien.
Cecil wrote several biographies. At Internet Archives you can read his lives of William Cowper, Charles Lamb, or Max Beerbohm, or his two-volume biography of Lord Melbourne (1 and 2).
If those individuals don’t tickle your proverbial fancy, you might want to look at the book that piqued my interest: An Anthology of Modern Biography. In it, Cecil explores the work of sixteen biographers. One of the chapters is his own portrayal of the evangelical Anglican cleric, John Newton (an extract from his biography of Cowper).
What intrigues me most about the volume is not the biographical material itself. Rather, it is Cecil’s very informative introduction. Here is his opening, which may whet the interest of future biographers . . . one of whom could be you?
Biography is not an important form of literary art. But it has a special interest to the student of modern literature. For it is the only new form. We can talk of modern poetry and modern novels, but these are only new variations on old forms. . . . Not so biography.
Art is primarily the expression of the artist’s creative powers; he writes to express his personal vision; he chooses as his subject that which he thinks will best exhibit his particular talent.
Now this is not true of the biographer of the past. His aim was not artistic, it was useful; he wanted to give people information. If he was a man of literary talent . . . his book was a work of art. But even if it had not been, it would not have failed. For its primary purpose had been, not to give an artistic impression, but to tell the truth.
This desire for the truth over ostentation resonates with me. But, mind you, he is referring to biographers “of the past.” Now (the book was published in 1936), other influences are at work.
But for the typical modern biographer literature comes first. Mr. Lytton Strachey writes about Queen Victoria, not in order to give us information about her, but because he thinks her life an excellent subject for a work of art. . . .
He does not set out his facts . . . complete with reference and proof, he weaves them into a story, grouping them in order and proportion that will make his picture as vivid and entertaining as possible.
Cecil’s explanation for this transformation is fascinating, and I encourage you to read it yourself, whether or not you are interested in writing a biography yourself. The book is available here, and thanks to the Public Library of India, you can download a complete copy for free.
In a 1932 letter to Arthur Greeves, C.S. Lewis contrasts biographies with the evidence from people’s daily lives. He shares with his lifelong friend a question this raises in his own minid.
It is a very consoling fact that so many books about real lives – biographies, autobiographies, letters etc. – give one such an impression of happiness, in spite of the tragedies they all contain. What could be more tragic than the main outlines of Lamb’s or Cowper’s lives?
But as soon as you open the letters of either, and see what they were writing from day to day and what a relish they got out of it, you almost begin to envy them.
Perhaps the tragedies of real life contain more consolation and fun and gusto than the comedies of literature?
Biography. Considering trying it. And, Poetry, it’s not that bad, either.
* The article does include interesting information about Faulkner. It appears his disappointed poetic dream shifted him to more productive fields. This parallels C.S. Lewis’ literary career.
For all of [Faulkner’s] achievements, his Nobel Prize for Literature, his Pulitzers and National Book Awards, his mug on a 22-cent postage stamp – the man still fell short. And it wasn’t that he dropped out of high school and did only a few semesters of college, or that he was once fired by an employer for reading on the job.
These were small missteps and shortcomings that were basically inconsequential in the long run. The larger issue is that, in his own view, William Faulkner was a failed poet. Failed.
“Maybe every novelist wants to write poetry first,” he told The Paris Review in 1956, “finds he can’t, and then tries the short story, which is the most demanding form after poetry. And, failing at that, only then does he take up novel writing.”
What you may not know is that before his first novel, Soldier’s Pay, Faulkner had written two books of poetry, Vision in Spring in 1921 and The Marble Faun in 1924. While he’d long dreamed of being taken seriously as a poet, the verse was always second-rate and not particularly significant. Eventually he abandoned his efforts as a poet to focus solely on his fiction.
⁑ In the spirit of most colonials who shook off the reigns of monarchial rule, I tend to respect the Queen as a head of state, and disregard the affectations of an aristocracy they once “lorded” it over. Thus, I can take or leave Cecil’s normative citation as “Lord David Cecil.”
Mere Inkling Press 