D’you mind if I share some things I read in the S pages of a massive Webster’s Second International? Thanks. You’re a peach.
Obsolete meanings of common words
Sorry is used as a noun in Scottish and some English dialects to mean “sorrow.” It was also once used as “to grieve.” And sorry grace was once a phrase meaning “bad luck” or “ill fortune.”
Sorrow once had a subtle use of causing actual damage, not just emotional stress.
Sore as an adjective once had a sense of criminal or wrong. As a noun, it once was used to mean disease, affliction, pain, or grief. As a verb, it used to mean “to wound.”
Sound was once used in the sense of understanding or relevance, as in, the speech had no sound for me.
Word combos
Also, on these pages are lists of combinations, like these archaic ones for sore: sore-beset, sore-dreaded, sore-taxed, sore-vexed, and sore-won.
These for sorrow are not marked archaic but have an unfamiliar sound to me: sorrow-blinded, sorrow-bound, sorrow-closed, sorrow-seasoned, sorrow-shot, and sorrow-streaming.
For soul, there’s a long list, including soul-benumbed, soul-blind, soul-boiling, soul-cloying, soul-fatting, soul-gnawing, and soul-thralling.
The Internet doesn’t have natural discoverability like this old dictionary. We could lose a lot of knowledge by limiting our systems to giving us only the answers to the questions we’ve asked, because if we ask what else we might want to know, the Internet just asks us what else we want to know.
Now that I’ve played the philologist for a minute, what else do we have?
More Words: Here are a couple videos on old words that should be brought back.
Journalism: There’s a pedestrian bridge crossing I-494 just west of the Minneapolis Airport that connects Bloomington to Richfield. Tyler Vigen wanted to know why it was built. Some of the readers of this very blog may be asking the same question, so Vigen did the research and has given us a full report (with excessive in-text notes).
Photo: The sign on the old hotel by the tracks, Gulpwater, Wyoming. John Margolies Roadside America photograph archive (1972-2008), Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs Division.
Your correspondent is a tad down today. Translation work has been slow (read nonexistent), and it snowed and snowed for days and days. Stopped today, and we should be safe for a while according to the forecasts. But it’s… full out there. Chock full. This is one of those years when we don’t know what to do with all the accumulation. The piles along the driveway are nearly as tall as we are.
Of course my neighbor clears the snow for me with a machine, but it’s guilt-inducing to watch him at it.
The news is depressing too. I think I’m going to turn off talk radio again for a while (except for some hours of Prager). Listen to Pandora instead. Confession: I’d like to see my party, you know, pulling together. But I’m afraid that if I say that I’ll be accused of being a RINO. The arguments in favor of the Twenty make some sense to me, but I don’t like watching friends turn into enemies. Simple soul that I am, I don’t think that really helps in the long run.
Above, maintaining the theme of love for That Hideous Strength I’ve been proclaiming all week, here’s Andrew Klavan talking about it. Some of this is a little hard to understand (how can anybody not love Narnia? How can anybody read THS with ease the first time through?), but his opinions on the meaning of the book are spot on. They get him the all-important Walker endorsement, which is nice.
And mixed with this was the sense that she had been maneuvered into a false position. It ought to have been she who was saying these things to the Christians. Hers ought to have been the vivid, perilous world brought against their gray formalized one; hers the quick, vital movements and theirs the stained-glass attitudes. That was the antithesis she was used to. This time, in a sudden flash of purple and crimson, she remembered what stained glass was really like.
The time has come to review C. S. Lewis’ That Hideous Strength, and how am I to do that? I think a scholar could devote his whole career to this one. It’s packed full of good stuff. All that stuff doesn’t always work together as you might wish, but even the “failings” look different once you’ve grasped the grand design. Or (perhaps better put) designs.
The setup, in case you’ve never read the book, is that this is the third novel about Prof. Elwin Ransom of Cambridge University, who traveled, first to Mars, and then to Venus, in the previous novels, Out of the Silent Planet and Perelandra. There he found the universe and its inhabitants to be very different from what he expected – more on the lines of medieval cosmology than anything imagined by H. G. Wells.
But in this third book, Ransom himself doesn’t appear until well along in the story. We first meet Jane Studdock, educated young wife of a fellow at Bracton College of the (fictional) University of Edgestowe. Jane has been having troubling dreams of a disembodied head, connected by tubes to some kind of mechanism. She confides her fears to “Mother” Dimble, wife of an older faculty member, which leads her gradually into the orbit of an eccentric community of Christians who live in the nearby village of St. Anne’s.
Meanwhile, her husband Mark is excited to be gaining entrée into the “inner ring” at Bracton – the young, “dynamic” men who know the important people and are poised to sweep the old traditions away. But soon he gets a chance to join an even more exclusive ring – the men of the National Institute for Coordinated Experiments (N.I.C.E.), which is acquiring the college property. Mark’s new duties, should he agree to take the post with N.I.C.E., are a little vague, but they clearly involve ethical compromises. And he cannot guess N.I.C.E.’s true goal – the extinction of all life on earth.
If you’ve read Perelandra, you’ll recall how the narrator, as he approaches Ransom’s cottage at the beginning, has to struggle against a “barrier” – a spiritual blockade of sorts. Readers approaching That Hideous Strength have to pass a barrier too. Ironically, this barrier exists because the author did such a good job of realizing his narrative goals.
The problem with the first half of That Hideous Strength is that the passages set at Belbury (the headquarters of N.I.C.E.) are highly effective in portraying the worst aspects of bureaucracy, as Lewis had come to know (and loathe) it. His hatreds of petty ambition, of envy, of snobbery, of fuzzy thinking, of officiousness, of chronological snobbery and moral relativism spring into sight here – not in vivid, but in muted, colors. The satire is biting. But it makes for rather dreary reading. It’s like a breath of country air when we switch to the scenes at St. Anne’s, where the breeze is fresh and there are friendly people (and animals).
Somebody said (it might have been Dale Nelson; it might have been in the comments here) that That Hideous Strength is Lewis’ catch-all book, the book where he threw in everything he wanted to say all at once. Perhaps it would have worked better artistically if he’d practiced more restraint. But it wouldn’t be what it is – a book you could study all your life.
What themes are we dealing with here? The Abolition of Man. The whole nightmare of Belbury is a vision of a new world order based on subjective values – in which all the things that make our lives worth living are dismissed as chemical accidents, reducing humanity itself to raw material for working experiments on. The “humanitarian” theory of punishment, in which the prisoner’s rights are swept away on the pretext of “treating” him. The lure of the “inner ring,” where a man sells his soul by stages for rewards of diminishing happiness. The values of hierarchy and subordination, including in marriage. The mythopoeic fantasies of Tolkien, which Lewis weds to King Arthur and the Matter of Britain. The “spiritual thriller” genre written so well by Lewis’ friend Charles Williams.
There’s something strangely familiar about Belbury to the modern reader, although the parallel isn’t apparent at first. The great goal of the N.I.C.E. is to utterly wipe out organic life, leaving only Mind (ostensibly human, but in fact diabolical). That seems like the opposite of the dominant movement of our own world, a Nature worship that seems poised to embrace human extinction.
But it seems to me the two things aren’t that far apart. Both the Greta Thunberg cult and N.I.C.E. are hostile to human procreation. Today’s progressives, though “sex-positive” in theory, in fact despise any human sexual activity that could produce natural offspring (like the inhabitants of the moon described in this book, “their real children they fabricate by vile arts in a secret place.”).
I could go on and on. That Hideous Strength occupies a very special place in my heart. Every time I read it, it moves me and teaches me. It brings me to tears. I recommend it highly, but I warn you it requires a little work.
I’m still working away at That Hideous Strength. My slow progress shouldn’t be taken as a sign of disinterest; I’m enjoying it quite a lot. I just have things I’ve got to do, and I’m moving slow because of the fall I took. So I don’t anticipate a review until next week.
Above, a very short clip from 9 years ago, of the mathematician John Lennox reminiscing about listening to Lewis lecturing at Cambridge. This was actually the very last lecture series Lewis ever delivered, before ill health forced his retirement. His eccentric lecturing “style” is well documented from several sources, though others report that Lewis actually starting lecturing out in the hallway before even entering the classroom. His voice carried well.
Still reading That Hideous Strength, so what shall I blog about? Are you interested in the fact that I fell down the basement stairs the other day? Moving too fast for a man my age; I’d just come inside and my rubber shoe soles were wet. One of them slipped on a stair tread, because I took it too close to the edge, and I went down a few steps.
No major damage that I could tell. Nothing seems to be broken. I can’t even see any bruises; maybe they’re in back, out of my view in the mirror. But I assume there’s a muscle bruise in one of the stabilizing muscles on the left side of my trunk. Walking’s a little painful, but it’s getting up and sitting down that hurt most. Today I did some shopping, and I took my cane. It helped. Surprisingly, I’ve been feeling a little better each day (isn’t the third day supposed to be the worst?), so I expect I’ll be fairly mobile by the weekend.
I did some noodling on the internet and found the “trailer” above – a fake somebody mugged up. I like it, though I can’t endorse all the casting. Hopkins is way too old to play Ransom, and where’s the sweeping golden beard? Gielgud is dead, always an inconvenience. I used to dream of doing a film of the book myself – even had the first shots planned out. I wanted Orson Welles as Merlin – he’d have done it too, if we’d had the money; he’d take any role at the end. I’m glad other people feel the same way about THS; I’m always surprised when anybody likes the book – I’ve encountered so much hostility to it over the years.
Reader’s impressions: First of all, we’re told that Jane Studdock’s maiden name was Tudor. That’s significant for any Arthurian – the Tudors were the dynasty that really promoted the revival of the Arthurian legend in the late Middle Ages. As a Welsh family, and thus Celtic/British, they claimed through Arthur a prior right of sovereignty over the upstart Normans.
I expect it’s the character of Jane that offends people the most in our time – the idea that she’s missed her true vocation by refusing to bear children. But in the context of the book, Jane is far less in the wrong than her husband Mark. She’s merely petty; Mark runs the danger of genuine corruption, becoming part of something worse than the Nazis.
He picked one of [the fruits] and turned it over and over. The rind was smooth and firm and seemed impossible to tear open. Then by accident one of his fingers punctured it and went through into coldness. After a moment’s hesitation he put the little aperture to his lips. He had meant to extract the smallest, experimental sip, but the first taste put his caution all to flight. It was, of course, a taste, just as thirst and hunger had been thirst and hunger. But then it was so different from every other taste that it seemed mere pedantry to call it a taste at all. It was like the discovery of a totally new genus of pleasures, something unheard of among men, out of all reckoning, beyond all covenant. For one draft of this on Earth wars would be fought and nations betrayed. It could not be classified…
I told you yesterday that I was reading C. S. Lewis’ Perelandra. As the taste of the fruit in the passage above surpassed the narrator’s powers of description, I have a hard time expressing the effect this wonderful book had on me. I’ve read it several times before – once aloud, in fact – but though the plot is familiar, the experience is always a surprise.
Perelandra was the first book of Lewis’ science fiction trilogy that I read, long ago. My preference is to read series in order, but this was the only one they had in the little church library from which I borrowed it. I was still just getting to know Lewis at the time, and I little imagined what I was letting myself in for.
The book opens with the only instance I recall in Lewis’ works where he inserts himself into one of his own stories (reminiscent of his theological argument comparing the Incarnation to Shakespeare writing himself into a play. Amusingly, a couple of Lewis’ real-life friends get mentions). He describes walking to Ransom’s cottage at night, in response to a pre-arranged summons. He finds the journey surprisingly difficult; he’s assailed by irrational fears and sudden resentment against Ransom. When he arrives, Ransom isn’t home – but Something is. After an encounter with a genuine angel (Eldil), Ransom shows up at last and Lewis helps him to prepare for a journey to Perelandra (the planet Venus) by supernatural means.
The choice of conveyance here is emblematic of the whole book. Out of the Silent Planet was perfectly adequate in its attempts at hard science fiction writing by a non-scientist, imagining some kind of theoretical higher physics propulsion system. But by this point Lewis had figured out that his strength wasn’t in the direction of hard SF. He was a fantasist at heart, and from here on the books would be science fantasy. Science fantasy can be a lazy shortcut, when a writer is doing something like Buck Rogers space opera. But for Lewis, this approach provided a springboard for a deep dive into metaphysics.
At the time Lewis was writing (mid-World War II), our knowledge of the planet Venus was negligible. This offered tremendous scope for the imagination. Lewis’s brain conceived the idea of an ocean planet where organic islands bearing paradisical fruits and fantastical animals floated constantly on a golden sea. And ruling the planet, a pair of naked, green-skinned human beings, the unfallen Adam and Eve of that world. The man and the woman have been separated. Ransom meets the woman. Then Ransom’s old enemy Dr Weston shows up (by “conventional” spacecraft), and it falls on Ransom to protect a second Paradise from a second Fall.
I told you about it yesterday – sometimes I had to just set this book down for a while, because it was too beautiful to bear. The authorial challenge Lewis takes on here is supremely audacious – to imagine a true state of innocence in a way that won’t be misinterpreted by dirty minds. To describe colors the reader has never seen and tastes he’ll never taste, without sounding precious. To provide a parable of the life of faith that even skeptics can appreciate – even if they don’t get the point.
But it works. It works in every line, every paragraph. This is Lewis at the height of his creative powers. This is the kind of work Tolkien dreamed “Jack” would do more of, when he arranged for him to get a chair at Cambridge – something which, in God’s economy, was never to be. That Hideous Strength is a worthy sequel, but Perelandra stands alone – not only in Lewis’ oeuvre, but in the science fiction genre as a whole. An amazing book.
It seemed to Ransom that he had never looked out on such a frosty night. Pulsing with a brightness as with some unbearable pain or pleasure, clustered in pathless and countless multitudes, dreamlike in clarity, blazing in perfect blackness, the stars seized all his attention, troubled him, excited him, and drew him to a sitting position.
Yet another book that I love and haven’t read in a while is Out of the Silent Planet, first in C. S. Lewis’ science fiction trilogy. Perhaps the least noted of the three books, because it’s less lyrical/symphonic than Perelandra and less controversial than That Hideous Strength, it is nevertheless one of the great space travel books of the 1930s, and (I believe) a game-changer in the genre.
If you haven’t read it before, we meet our hero, philologist Elwin Ransom, out on a walking tour. Traveling later than he intended due to a disappointment in accommodations, Ransom encounters an old woman, weeping and searching for “her Henry.” Henry is her son, who is a little “simple.” Henry works at a nearby facility run by two rich men, one of them a university don. Hearing about this don, a colleague who might offer a night’s rest, Ransom offers to go look for the boy. He manages to get onto the facility grounds, where he sees two men trying subdue poor Henry, who cries out that he doesn’t want to go “in there.” Ransom interferes, enabling the boy to escape. Then he finds that one of the men is in fact someone he knows (and has always disliked), a man named Devine, once a scholar, now a businessman. He introduces his colleague Weston, a world-famous physicist. After some initial unpleasantness, Ransom is indeed invited in to spend the night.
What he doesn’t know is that Devine and Weston are planning a trip to “Malacandra” (Mars). They’ve been there before, and encountered creatures called Sorns. The Sorns asked them to bring them someone “of their own kind.” Assuming the Sorns want a human sacrifice, they’d intended to use poor Henry. But if Ransom insists on interfering, he’ll do just as well.
So soon Ransom finds himself on a spherical spacecraft, headed to Mars. He finds space (wonderfully) different from what he expected. Once he’s arrived on Malacandra (brilliantly imagined according to the scientific knowledge of the time), he gets free from his captors and soon encounters a “Hrossa,” one of the three indigenous sapient species. Again and again, what he finds confounds his presumptions and expectations. Aliens aren’t what he expects, the universe isn’t what he expects, and at last he even gets an objective look at humanity itself, through alien eyes. Then finally through Eyes even more alien.
I’m not an expert on Science Fiction in the 1930s-40s period, but my impression (reinforced by references in this book) is that the common assumption in the field was that aliens were either hostile super-intellects or primitives. Lewis lampoons this latter view in the character of Weston, who gives a ridiculous, patronizing, “me give-um you pretty beads” speech to an Intelligence infinitely above his comprehension. It’s a brilliant satirical scene, and – I suspect – stories like “Avatar” may be the distant descendants of this seminal book.
It goes without saying that I recommend Out of the Silent Planet unreservedly.
Joss Ackland and Claire Bloom in the 1985 “Shadowlands”
My metaphorical Advent calendar opened today and dispensed paying translating work. This is excellent. I’ve been idle for a couple months, and I can use the income. An interesting project, too.
So, little time for reading and no book to review today. Of what shall I write?
I watched the Most Reluctant Convert movie, as I said. Then I watched it again. And last night I thought, “Might as well watch Shadowlands too, and close the circuit.” And when I say Shadowlands, I mean, of course, the original 1985 BBC production with Joss Ackland and Claire Bloom. The 1993 version, with Anthony Hopkins and Debra Winger, isn’t even on my radar. I watched it once and was unimpressed (except by Winger, who is much closer to the real Joy Davidman than the refined Claire Bloom. But otherwise the 1985 version is more authentic and more concerned with the characters’ Christian faith. My impression of the 1993 movie is that it portrays Lewis as an immature man rescued by True Love. And his Christianity is regarded as one of his immature traits).
Anyway, you get a pretty good overview of Lewis’ life by watching the two movies in sequence. The Most Reluctant Convert offers a fairly authentic (though necessarily incomplete) picture of Lewis’ life up to his conversion. Shadowlands (if you watch the right version) gives a broadly decent impression of what happened in his later years, when he got married and suffered bereavement and a crisis of faith.
Of course, it’s an incomplete picture, as any cinematic portrayals must be. The Most Reluctant Convert leaves out much of the story, notably Lewis’ unhappy time in English public schools (what we’d call private academies in this country). And the book it’s based on, Surprised by Joy, omits much in the first place. In particular, Lewis’ domestic life with Mrs. Moore, the mother of a friend killed in the Great War, whom Lewis cared for in fulfillment of a promise to that friend. He wouldn’t have liked that story re-told; it began in infatuation in his atheist days and was transformed into voluntary servanthood after his conversion.
Shadowlands is a moving story, but heavily tailored to its dramatic form. Jack’s and Joy’s marriage actually lasted four years – her sons were nearly grown and away at school when she died. The affecting scene at the end where Jack and the boy Douglas Gresham grieve together never happened – sadly.
Most of all I was wondering what Jack himself would have thought about all this bother. And I thought I’d ponder that tonight in this post, to see if I could figure out what I think. I’m pretty sure Jack would have been mortified by the whole business. Aside from his personal modesty, there’s the fact that he deplored any examination of a writer’s life in order to interpret his work. The work, he frequently insisted, must stand on its own. It’s not for the critic to poke around in the author’s history and personality, hunting for repressions and obsessions.
Although I’m pretty sure he didn’t object to Boswell’s Life of Johnson. Because that’s a work of literature in its own right.
However, the two films I’m discussing are works of art in their own rights too. So does that make it OK?
Well, we have to deal with things as they are, I suppose. Whether he liked it or not, Jack Lewis was an interesting man. And people who love his books frequently want to know more about the man who wrote them.
This interest, surprisingly, even generally survives their first exposure to a picture of Lewis, something he himself described as a “most undecorative object.”
Maybe – and I’m very likely projecting here – it’s the fact that people experience Lewis’ writings as letters from a friend. We’d very much like to have a friend like that. Friendship is an experience that’s fallen on hard times in our evil world. Lewis had a splendid gift for friendship, as we know from his life story.
I know what he’d say to that, though – “Do you live on a deserted island? Is there no church in your community? You might be surprised what qualities lie concealed in the people in the next pew.”
I finally saw it. I touted the film, The Most Reluctant Convert when it first appeared in theaters, but didn’t get around to going myself. Because I’m old, and there’s Covid, and it would have been a long drive, etc., etc. But now I’ve got the DVD, and I must say I was impressed. Better even than I expected.
Essentially, this production is a dramatization of Lewis’ memoir, Surprised by Joy, with some The Weight of Glory thrown in. Originally a stage play, the film adaptation takes an interesting approach. We start with the filming preparations, as makeup people finish their work on the actor Max McLean. Then he seems to nod off, and when he lifts his head he’s Lewis. He walks out of the studio and directly into the Museum of Natural History at Oxford, all the while discussing how he moved from atheism to Christianity. As we follow, the film alternates between the “present” – Lewis talking to the camera – and recreations of dramatic scenes from his life. Often Lewis sits on the sidelines, watching his younger self, a dramatic element I rather like.
The production is really very well done all around. It has an authentic look; the acting is excellent. Good costumes and sets. The actors even vaguely resemble the people they’re playing. And the story is presented with what I think is considerable power. Some memorable parts of Surprised, like Lewis’ miserable time in public school, are skipped over as the narrative sticks with the main topic.
Max McLean is good – I won’t say great – as Lewis. In makeup he resembles the man, in a sort of rubber-faced way. Having never met Lewis, I can’t really say more with any authority, but I still think the definitive portrayal is Joss Ackland’s in the original BBC version of Shadowlands (which had the same director as this film). Ackland looked less like Lewis, but had the physical bulk and booming voice. And he’d clearly studied Lewis’ mannerisms. He also wore his hat with the brim turned down all the way around, which McLean neglects to do for some reason. (Somebody must have told him about this, I would think.)
But these are quibbles. All in all, The Most Reluctant Convert is a highly successful and impressive adaptation. I’m glad I bought it.
In 1958, humor rag Punch published an essay by C.S. Lewis called “Revival or Decay?” in which Lewis criticized broad-brush assessments of his day–the same assessments people still make. Here’s his closing paragraph.
Is there a homogeneous ‘West’? I doubt it. Everything that can go on is going on all round us. Religions buzz about us like bees. A serious sex worship–quite different from the cherry lechery endemic in our species–is one of them. Traces of embryonic religions occur in science-fiction. Meanwhile, as always, the Christian way too is followed. But nowadays, when it is not followed, it need not be feigned. That fact covers a good deal of what is called the decay of religion. Apart from that, is the present so very different from other ages of ‘the West’ from anywhere else?
