Tag: Nonfiction

C.S. Lewis, Apologues & Allegories

On By robstroudIn Animals, C.S. Lewis, History, J.R.R. Tolkien, Latin, Literature, Modern Life, Music, Narnia, Nature, Words, Writing27 Comments

It has been argued that C.S. Lewis wrote apologues, but I humbly disagree.

An “apologue,” you see, is defined as “a moral fable, especially one with animals as characters.” From that core definition, it makes sense to some that works such as The Chronicles of Narnia might be described as apologues.  

However, this term is usually applied to much simpler, more concise stories –  short moral fables (think Aesop) rather than an extended tales. “Apologue” is a vastly insufficient label for what J.R.R. Tolkien described as subcreation. Narnia is not a fable, it is a world.

Years ago I compared Aesop’s brief “The Kingdom of the Lion,” with C.S. Lewis’ brilliant vision of Aslan.

In “The Lion’s Command,” I identified a virtuous parallel between the brief regent in the fable and the well-developed protagonist of Narnia. In the Chronicles, Narnia’s hero is nothing other than the Alpha and Omega, reigning over its creation and preserving his kingdom to its ultimate culmination.

In “C.S. Lewis and the Art of the Apologue,” Samuel Joeckel argues that “The Screwtape Letters and The Great Divorce might be read as pure apologues, while Lewis’s other works of mythopoeia contain elements of the apologue.” This is an intriguing proposal, which has not gained much traction. Of course, Joeckel’s point that “elements” of apologue are present is certainly true, but that would be so when considering the work of numerous authors.

If not an Apologue, might Narnia be an Allegory?

An interesting article about parables contrasts parables and apologues in the following manner.

Another story style that is related to parables is the apologue. Apologues are short stories that are intended to convey a lesson, and they often use animals as characters. . . . Unlike parables, which generally have realistic scenarios, apologues allow an element of fantasy while maintaining a moral point.

The same article describes differences between parables and apologues as contrasted with allegories, such as George Orwell’s Animal Farm.

Parables are not the only type of story that present a moral lesson. Allegories are stories or poems where different elements are designed to convey abstract or spiritual meaning. . . . Allegories and parables are related in their use of symbolic language.

The difference is, in essence, one of complexity. While parables (and apologues) normally focus on a single lesson, allegories feature broader elements fleshing out a more elaborate lesson or message. 

Allegories are more metaphorical and often involve characters representing abstract ideas, and the symbolism can be deeply complex. However, parables are more direct, with a simple narrative that usually involves a human character facing a moral dilemma or the consequences of a bad decision (“Allegory Vs. Parable”). 

“Allegory vs Apologue,” offers a similar distinction between these two literary exercises. 

Allegory and apologue are both forms of extended metaphor that use symbolic characters and events to convey a deeper meaning. However, there are some important distinctions between the two. . . .

Apologue, on the other hand, is a more general term that refers to any story or fable that teaches a moral lesson. Unlike allegory, apologue does not necessarily have a hidden meaning . . .

C.S. Lewis challenges the notion that allegories possess “hidden” themes. In his preface to The Pilgrim’s Regress, he argues that true allegories do not mask their message. 

People . . . suppose that allegory is a disguise, a way of saying obscurely what could have been said more clearly. But in fact all good allegory exists not to hide but to reveal; to make the inner world more palpable by giving it an (imagined) concrete embodiment.

In The Allegory of Love: A Study of Medieval Tradition, C.S. Lewis describes the unique goal of this literary device. 

The function of allegory is not to hide but to reveal, and it is properly used only for that which cannot be said, or so well said, in literal speech.

The inner life, and specially the life of love, religion, and spiritual adventure, has therefore always been the field of true allegory; for here there are intangibles which only allegory can fix and reticences which only allegory can overcome. 

In an essay about the author of The Faerie Queene, “Edmund Spenser, 1552–99,” Lewis lauds the path allegories pursue to illumine readers.

We shall understand it best (though this may seem paradoxical) by not trying too hard to understand it. Many things – such as loving, going to sleep, or behaving unaffectedly – are done worst when we try hardest to do them. Allegory is not a puzzle.

With C.S. Lewis’ genuine appreciation for good allegory, it is unsurprising that some readers are tempted to label The Chronicles of Narnia as such. After all, too brief and far too elaborate to be a collection of mere apologues, it seems logical. Yet, Lewis himself dispelled that conclusion. His opinion is expressed clearly in the following passage from a letter written in 1958.

If Aslan represented the immaterial Deity in the same way in which Giant Despair represents Despair [in The Pilgrim’s Progress], he would be an allegorical figure.

In reality however he is an invention giving an imaginary answer to the question, “What might Christ become like, if there really were a world like Narnia and He chose to be incarnate and die and rise again in that world as He actually has done in ours?” This is not allegory at all.

No, the Chronicles offer no mere allegory. Aslan and Narnia are something altogether more rare and precious . . . and uniquely inspiring.

Bonus:

For those inclined to see how the AI at ChatGPT might compose an analogue, consider the following examples. I offered three brief prompts and amazingly swift apologues. 

⌘ Write an apologue in ancient roman style about why a porcupine is hard to get along with.

Certainly! Here’s an apologue in the style of ancient Roman moral tales – think Aesop with a Roman flavor (e.g., Phaedrus) – explaining why the porcupine is hard to get along with. This style uses simple characters, a brief narrative, and a moral at the end.

Apologue: The Porcupine and the Burrowers

Characters:
~ Porcupine (Hystrix)
~ Mole (Talpa)
~ Hedgehog (Erinaceus)
Moralitas at the end.

In the time when the earth still whispered secrets to beasts, a bitter winter approached. The animals who dwelt below ground gathered to find warmth together.

The Mole, who dug deep and dark tunnels, said, “Let us share one chamber, and none shall freeze.”

The Hedgehog, with bristles soft enough in the cold, agreed. “We are small and spined, but kindred in spirit.”

Then came the Porcupine, bristling with long, sharp quills. “I seek shelter,” he said. “Let me in.”

The others, though wary, welcomed him. “There is warmth in many bodies, if none poke too hard.”

But when the Porcupine curled to sleep, his quills pricked every side of the burrow. The Mole winced. The Hedgehog bled. They shifted, gave him space – but no space was enough.

“Friend Porcupine,” said the Mole, “can you not soften your stance?”

The Porcupine replied, “My quills are my nature. I mean no harm, yet I cannot change.”

So, one by one, the others left, seeking colder but safer places.

The Porcupine remained, alone in warmth – but with no friend near.

Moralitas:
He who cannot bend his nature to spare his neighbors must be content with solitude, for warmth of company is given only to those who wound not.

Having delivered the moral of the fable, the AI was so thoughtful as to ask: “Would you like a Latin version of the apologue as well?”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

⌘ Write an apologue in the style of C.S. Lewis about why classical music is better than rock and roll.

Certainly! Here is an apologue in the style of C.S. Lewis – reminiscent of his storytelling in The Screwtape Letters, The Chronicles of Narnia, and The Pilgrim’s Regress. Lewis often used allegory and fable to convey theological or philosophical arguments through richly imagined, morally charged tales.

Apologue: The Two Gardens

In an ancient land that bordered both silence and song, there lived two brothers: Eldarion and Ruckus.

Their father, the Keeper of Harmony, was a master gardener who tended to two great gardens, each grown from a different seed of music.

One garden was called Lyrion, and it bloomed with strange and delicate flowers. Trees sang there – not with words, but with symphonies. The air was always filled with the faint sound of strings, like something half-remembered from a dream. This was the realm of Classica, the music that had deep roots and slow unfolding blossoms.

The other garden, Thundra, was younger, wilder. Vines twisted with fire, and great drums beat like the hearts of giants. Flames leapt from the leaves when touched. This was the realm of Rocka, born of storm and impulse. It throbbed with noise and power.

One day, the father called his sons. “Each of you shall choose a garden to tend,” he said. “But take heed: a garden grows into the likeness of its gardener.”

Eldarion, quiet and curious, chose Lyrion. He studied the old scores carved into the bark of the elder trees. He listened for the faintest cadences hidden in the wind. His garden grew slowly, but with order and depth. Some who visited said they heard truth in its song – though they could not explain it.

Ruckus chose Thundra. He brought iron tools and thunderous machines. He shouted into the wind and danced among the fire-vines. His garden grew quickly, wildly, and it drew many visitors who loved its power. But the soil became hard, and the songs repeated themselves. At night, when the fire died, there was silence – and the silence frightened him.

Years passed.

One evening, Ruckus visited his brother’s garden. It was still and strange, yet somehow more alive. The music there did not grab the ear – it waited, like a cathedral waits for a footstep.

“I do not understand this,” said Ruckus.

“You’re not meant to at first,” Eldarion said gently. “But if you sit long enough, you may find it is not music you hear – but yourself.”

Moral:
Not all noise is music, and not all music is noise. That which is deep may not dazzle, but it endures.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

⌘ Write an apologue in the style of C.S. Lewis showing how reading nonfiction and fiction can be equally beneficial.

Certainly! Here’s an apologue in the style of C.S. Lewis, with his characteristic blend of gentle allegory, rational argument, and spiritual insight. Think of something akin to The Great Divorce or The Pilgrim’s Regress – a story that carries philosophical weight through symbolic characters and a clear moral undercurrent.

Apologue: The Library of the Lantern

There was once a Traveller who came upon an ancient Library, tucked between the hills of two realms: Factland, where the roads were straight and numbered, and Fablemere, where the paths curled like ivy and sometimes moved when you weren’t looking.

The Traveller, weary from debate and burdened with questions, was greeted by an old librarian named Lucidus, who wore a cloak woven from both parchment and ink.

“You may read whatever you like here,” said Lucidus. “But I warn you: some shelves are straight, others crooked – and both are true.”

The Traveller began in the Hall of Records, where volumes bore names like The History of the World, Natural Laws, The Mind Explained, and Economics in Twelve Systems. The books were hard, clear, and bright like winter ice. Every sentence pointed like an arrow, and the Traveller felt smarter with every page. “Here,” he thought, “is what I came for: answers.”

But after a time, the light grew harsh, and the words – though sharp – offered no rest. He felt he had learned much, and yet not grown.

So he wandered next into the Chamber of Tales. Here were strange books that spoke of dragons and dying stars, of heroes who were cowards and cowards who became saints. The logic bent like a rainbow, and the truth came sideways.

At first he scoffed. “These things never happened!”

Lucidus appeared beside him and said quietly, “No – but they always happen.”

So the Traveller read on. And he wept when the fox died, and laughed when the king made a fool of himself. He saw his pride in the villain and his longing in the wandering knight. He saw the world as it might be – and in doing so, saw more clearly what the world was.

Time passed. The Traveller read from both wings of the library, sometimes walking the marble floors of Factland, sometimes lying on the mossy rugs of Fablemere. One sharpened his mind; the other softened his heart. One taught him how things work; the other, why they matter.

At last, he approached Lucidus.

“Which was truer?” the Traveller asked. “The world I could measure, or the one I could feel?”

Lucidus smiled. “Ah. One is the lamp, the other the flame. But both are needed to see.”

Moral:
Fiction teaches the soul what nonfiction explains to the mind – and wisdom lives where both meet.

This proved to be a very interesting exercise, indeed.

Fiction or Nonfiction: Which is Best?

On By robstroudIn Advice to Writers, C.S. Lewis, C.S. Lewis & the Inklings, Christian Life, J.R.R. Tolkien, Words, Writing12 Comments

Which is better for a person to write, fiction or nonfiction? That, of course, is an absurd question on its face. Every one recognizes nonfiction is best. (Just joking.)

Few of us are talented in the manner of C.S. Lewis — who excelled in both genres. Typically we have a knack for one or the other.

Which is best, becomes a question with a quite personal answer. And that response is determined by a number of interrelated elements. In which form are we more adept? Which do we prefer to read? For which are there greater avenues to experience publication? Through which do we receive more reward, extrinsic or intrinsic? 

Christian writers consider another, hopefully overriding, factor. What type of writing does the Lord desire us to pursue? And, it should be noted that just like the daily Christian walk, this is a dynamic matter. It can change at any given moment, depending upon how the Holy Spirit leads. Once again, C.S. Lewis offers an ideal example of this truth. God may lead us to write something factual one afternoon, imaginative the next, and perhaps poetry on the succeeding morning. 

What about the Prestige Factor?

There is a subtle prejudice among writers, I fear. While it’s natural to think that the genre most challenging to one may require additional skill or discipline, it seems to me most writers tacitly accept the notion that fiction requires more talent. 

While I personally disagree with that assessment, I understand it. After all, “facts” are readily available, and don’t rely on one’s imagination to devise. Still, good nonfiction is not inherently simpler to produce than quality fiction. (I mean, AI is proving every day that mediocrity can be reached in either genre in mere seconds.) 

As an example of this subtle prejudice, see this (quite helpful) article by promising young historical fictionist Cheyenne van Langevelde.

In an insightful article entitled “Genre ~ What Christian Writers Should be Aware of,” she introduces the subject with the following observation: 

As someone who hasn’t written nonfiction, I will not be discussing that branch of literature — though I’m sure it’s obvious how one could glorify God in their nonfiction writing. What I am going to talk about is the more challenging of the two branches: fiction.

I graduated from the University of Washington with an Editorial Journalism degree. While some argue Communication degrees are “worthless,” they may “set you up for life.” (That has certainly been my experience.)

Still, journalism doesn’t have the panache of “creative writing.” This, I suspect, is one reason that Master of Fine Arts (MFA) degrees exploded on the scene several decades ago.

When I open each issue of Poets & Writers, I’m overwhelmed by the number of ads for MFA programs, all over the globe. However, the October issue features a melancholy article titled “More MFA Programs Closing.” This is “despite all the value and prestige they bring to the university . . .”

The article cites “monetary pressures on universities and waning interest in the humanities” as major problems. Obvious to any non-MFA observer, the unbridled proliferation of MFA programs themselves might be the primary cause. 

Combine with that the evidence that a younger generation is more concerned about their prospects of making a living, and one might anticipate a further winnowing of such programs. 

For a balanced discussion of the subject, I commend “The MFA Degree: A Bad Decision?” — written by a writer who earned one, and subsequently “taught undergraduate and graduate courses in creative writing.”

I don’t believe MFA programs are inherently evil and have destroyed contemporary American literature. The majority of people teaching and taking creative writing classes are all trying to do good things. Nonetheless, I’ve begun to wonder if the MFA is, in fact, a bad decision.

It’s an interesting discussion, of value especially to those contemplating an MFA path. I leave that choice to the individual — as I leave to them the decision regarding whether to write fiction or nonfiction . . . or poetry, convincing historical fiction, satire, etc.

In order to expand their pool of prospective students, some MFA programs added “creative nonfiction” to their offerings. The focus of this genre is on training participants to consciously implement literary styles and techniques in order to make their factually accurate narratives more engaging.

While there is no doubt consciously taking these tools into consideration can improve the quality of many nonfiction works, it seems a bit exaggerated to label it “creative.” I would simply describe it as “good” or “well written” nonfiction. 

For a description of how creative nonfiction can be implemented in memoirs and essays, you might enjoy an introduction to the subject from Writers.com. You may wish to follow that up with “The Five R’s of Creative Nonfiction.” (Mere Inkling applies at least four of them.)

C.S. Lewis offered an aspiring young writer some wonderful advice in 1959. “Write about what really interests you,” he suggested, “whether it is real things or imaginary things, and nothing else.” He added the parenthetical note that “if you are interested only in writing you will never be a writer, because you will have nothing to write about . . .”

Excellent advice for the young wordsmith. I would add that for the maturing scribe it is often productive (and even fun) to experiment with a variety of genres.

Who knows? Perhaps you will follow the Inkling tradition established by C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien, being exceptional in fiction and nonfiction alike. Best of luck to those of you who embark on this journey!

The Inklings of Mount Hermon

On By robstroudIn Advice to Writers, C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien, Publishing, Writing7 Comments

mount hermon.png

Few writers attain their full potential without the advice and encouragement of others.

C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien recognized that fact.

For many years they gathered regularly with a number of other keen minds, almost all of whom shared their Christian faith. (Notably, Owen Barfield who was an Anthroposophist, was a notable exception.)  Some writers visited the community as guests.

I’ve written in the past about the great benefit provided by Inkling-style literary criticism. It’s all about synergy.

Mount Hermon Christian Writer’s Conference is one of the premier gatherings of its sort. After many years of hoping to attend, my wife and I journeyed to California for its Fiftieth Anniversary this past week. What a blessing!

In addition to hundreds of zealous writers, the conference was attended by twoscore publishers, agents and writing experts who generously shared their vast knowledge. And I use that word “generously” in a literal sense. The faculty made itself accessible to a degree I have never before witnessed (and I am a veteran of innumerable professional conferences). The speakers were sincerely interested in encouraging each and every participant.

Classes were available for writing novices, journeymen and experts. I found the track on screenwriting to be the most helpful for my own current needs. I hope to put these new lessons into practice in the next few years.

I can confidently assure you that Mount Hermon will also offer the sort of advice and encouragement that you need to advance your own skills to the proverbial “next level.” If you are interested in attending Mount Hermon, you can learn more here.

Back on the Home Front

If you have never enjoyed the benefits of gathering locally with other writers, I strongly encourage you to consider it now.

If you’re on a critique-group-hiatus due to past disappointments, why not look for a fresh group with a healthier focus?

I sincerely believe most of us become better writers while growing together, than we do wandering on our own. Mount Hermon reinforced that conviction.

I encourage each of you to reach your own full potential—with a little help from some new friends.

C.S. Lewis was Not a Dramatist

On By robstroudIn Advice to Writers, C.S. Lewis, Dorothy Sayers, Publishing, Writing16 Comments

shakespeare-and-lewisC.S. Lewis’ prolific, genre-crossing success teaches us two things. First, that a very good writer can fruitfully write in a variety of fields. Second, that even the most gifted of authors cannot write with equal talent in all genres.

Students of C.S. Lewis are well acquainted with the fact that one of the great disappointments of his life was failing to succeed as a poet. Although he did write a reasonable amount of poetry, it failed to elicit the response for which he hoped.

Lewis did, of course, receive well-deserved kudos for his literary fiction and children’s stories. His fiction and nonfiction are extraordinary, and over the years I have appreciated the value of his many essays to be among the most precious of his works.

Finally, as a correspondent, Lewis stood in the first ranks. He regarded the responsibility of personally responding to the letters he received as something not to be shirked.

Fortunately, the excellent collections of his letters offer us many insights into Lewis’ life and career. For his Christian fans, they reveal insights into how a disciple of Jesus can gracefully navigate life.

The following letter was written in 1959, to a man who was apparently the editor of a small newspaper. He had requested an article from the exceedingly busy professor. Lewis’ response is quite interesting.

Dear Mr. Aylard,

Yes! my handwriting is awful. It used to be nice but my muscles have stiffened up and the strokes no longer come out as I intend. I give ‘this generation’ all I can in the way of books and articles. Particular articles by request are not usually the good ones: and, you know, I should reach more readers through other organs than your paper. I hope this doesn’t sound stand-offish or conceited, for it is not meant to be. It is really common sense to speak where one can be most widely heard.

I agree that drama is a good medium for our purpose. In this country Dorothy Sayers’ broadcast set of plays on the life and death of Our Lord (The Man Born to be King) did a great deal of good. I don’t attempt this form myself because any talent I may have is narrative, not dramatic. With all good wishes.

I draw several observations from reading this letter.

  • Lewis took the time to personally pen many of his letters, despite the fact that this presented an uncomfortable challenge to him.
  • Lewis preferred to address subjects as he felt moved by the Holy Spirit to do so, rather than on demand.
  • He did not have the time to dress it up in gentle fluff, but candidly expressed the fact that if he had sufficient time and energy to write, it would not be the wisest stewardship to send the piece to a publication with a limited distribution.
  • Even though he did not intend for that remark to be curt or “conceited,” Lewis still felt compelled to offer his “I hope this doesn’t sound…” apology.
  • Lewis appreciated drama, and recognized Sayers’ work as quite noteworthy.
  • He recognized that drama would not be his forte, and wisely preferred to stick with the type of writing wherein he was most accomplished.

Even this final thought is offered with C.S. Lewis’ characteristic—and genuine—humility.

I don’t attempt this form myself because any talent I may have is narrative, not dramatic.

As a writer myself, I find this sentence quite comforting. And not simply because my own extremely modest talents also lie in the narrative realm. Even if I were a poet or a dramatist I would recognize how liberating it is to acknowledge that one cannot be fairly expected to excel at more than one genre.

And “excel” is not really the best word to use here. Perhaps it’s sufficient that writers think of themselves like children of Lake Wobegon, where Garrison Keillor tells us “all the women are strong, all the men are good-looking, and all the children are above average.”

Ultimately, whether we consider ourselves to be adequate or exceptional writers, it is necessary to understand where our skills reside, and to transgress those boundaries only with the greatest trepidation.

Literary Martial Arts

On By robstroudIn Advice to Writers, C.S. Lewis, Education, Literature, My Writing Projects, Writing8 Comments

nonficOne of the lowest moments in my writing life occurred when a creative writing professor advised me to “stick with nonfiction.” Oh, she said it gently, but it still struck me with the power of a mixed martial arts (MMA) hammerfist.

I was majoring in editorial journalism at the University of Washington. Attempting to expand my scope, I took a short story writing course. It was a mistake.

I thought I had done adequately during the course. I was even moderately pleased with a couple of my stories. The instructor, on the other hand, well let’s just say she was not impressed with my effort.

She was right. At the time, my ear for good fiction was quite immature. I do not claim that it’s particularly well developed today, but I have written a story about a medieval pilgrimage that I hope to unveil in a year or two.

I was reminded of my literature professor’s grim assessment as I recently read an interview with a pastor, who is also a lawyer, and happens to be a writer as well. His name is Randy Singer.

Singer describes the similarity of his professions by saying “They all require skills in persuasion, in telling stories to illustrate things.” I guess he’s right.

The difference being that pastors tell true stories, authors of fiction write imaginary stories, and attorneys weave tales that lie somewhere in between.

The part of the interview, which appeared in World Magazine, that I found particularly insightful was this:

When your only desire is to tell the story so people don’t even notice the wording, at that point you’ve become a fiction author.

Singer’s description struck me with the force of an MMA ridge hand (a reverse knife-hand). When I came to, I finally knew why composing fiction does not come naturally to me.

I love words too much. Too much to sacrifice them simply for the sake of the story. Oh, I value the message also, but getting there is half the fun.

Although I don’t love words to the degree many poets lust after them, I still possess an affection that does not allow me to view them through purely utilitarian lenses.

To add insult to his literary injury, Singer adds the following, in response to the question of what he learned while writing several successful novels.

Third, to be less verbose and let the action carry the story instead of thinking, “What are some really flowery and cool phrases and words that I can weave into this?”

That’s enough, friend. You made your point. I would have responded a bit more colorfully and fragrantly, but I hear you.

Singer doesn’t cite C.S. Lewis in the interview, but his counsel is consistent with that of the Oxford don. Lewis advised using clear and concrete language, “so as to make quite clear what you mean and make sure your sentence couldn’t mean anything else.” (Personal Correspondence, 1956).

Similarly, Lewis would always argue for the words not to draw attention to themselves. Essentially, they need to get out of the way so the message can come through. “Don’t use adjectives which merely tell us how you want us to feel about the things you are describing. I mean, instead of telling us a thing was “terrible,” describe it so that we’ll be terrified.”

It’s wisdom like that which causes us to recognize C.S. Lewis as the brilliant, gifted, creative, versatile and anointed writer that he was.

As for Singer, perhaps I’ll have to check out one of his legal thrillers. The latest is set in antiquity, with a Roman jurist defending Paul before Nero. Should be quite interesting. Not so good as a nonfiction account of such a trial would be . . . but probably worth reading.