Clive Staples

 January 8, 2021

Clive Staples Lewis

Christian

Hopefully Heaven

Clive Staples Lewis! There is one thing that I will not tolerate, and that is name-calling. I have put up with many things in the duration of our correspondence—including your outrageous declarations of love—but here I draw the line. I am not some perverted desire for your darling “Miss C”, nor am I a thrill that comes from a glimpse of the mountains or a snatch of Wagner. Honestly, Jack. If I didn’t know you better, I would say you didn’t know me at all. I do know you have faced certain difficulties during your pilgrimage from Romanticism to Christianity, but I expect common courtesy from a man I’ve practically raised.

Don’t dispute my claim! I still remember when you first noticed me—it was in your new house and you were trying to remember that small garden you and your brother made. You were small then, and you were so disappointed when you realized I was only visiting. But I remember you were consoled with my gifts to you—Beatrix Potter’s Squirrel Nutkin, and Longfellow's Saga of King Olaf. I did appreciate the letter you wrote to me on the beauty of poetry; however while I couldn’t agree more, it worried me. It was one of the first inklings I had that you were slightly off topic in our correspondence.

And it grew worse from there. All through your childhood, your stations at Chartres and Wyvern, and your boarding with Mr Kirkpatrick, you insisted on naming me with crude, babyish nicknames that degraded our letters to mere peek-a-boos with an old maiden aunt through whom one wished to gain one’s pocket money. This impression of our correspondence was only amplified with your desertion of religion—which I believe began even before our first meeting—and your transformation from wholesome romantic into self-righteous prig. 

Before you counter with my own professed hatred of name-calling, allow me to define my slander towards you. When you were infatuated with Siegfried and the Twilight of the Gods, or even when you purchased Ride of the Valkyries and listened to it for days on end, you had no pre-conceived notions that these were to your betterment in any social way. But when you noticed that extensive reading was a thing to be prideful of, and also when that horrid schoolmaster Pogo introduced the foppish priggishness of Class, then I knew my Jack’s maturity had shrunk to barely encompass your so-called “religious experiences”. I beg you not to mention the folly of those “realizations” to me ever again. The very thought spurs an urge in me to burn your letters—which would be unwise for both of us given that you intend to write a book later on.

About your future book, my only advice to you is to be frank. I know full well that you don’t believe you need my opinion on any literature or writing, but humble yourself this once. After all, you lose credibility and readers every time you skirt around an issue—dare I bring up your father? Perhaps not, but I do dare in your fascination with the Occult. Without full disclosure you risk unwittingly leading your readers down the spiral of alternatives. “What if this” or “what if that” simply won’t do for a spiritual autobiography. Especially since your words will live on and may lead others astray. No, Jack, you must lay out your desire for magic and materialism alike. 

I do not intend to digress, but I must make mention of this stage in your pilgrimage. I am not, as you had so egregiously termed me, an aesthetic experience. I am not the thrill of naughtiness that comes of dabbling in Magic, and I am not the pleasure of materialistic security. You might notice that I refused to begin this letter with our customary greetings. I make no apology, you neither deserved to be called “dear sir” nor “my dear companion”, especially after the pet names you labeled me with. Note, however, that I called you by name, a courtesy you declined to offer me until your second-to-last letter. That was, I believe, after you were demobbed, joined the staff of Oxford and your slight conversion to Theism.

Before the rest of this letter, I ask you to tender my regards to our mutual acquaintances. I cannot forget the debt I owe your First Friend Arthur, nor your Second Friend Coghill. My regards to Professor Tolkein and the esteemed George MacDonald as well—without these good men our letters would have declined in frequency, I’m sure. My thanks to Gilbert Keith Chesterton, without his influence on you during the more crucial periods of your conversion I was sure to be abandoned completely. 

Oh, how I am glad that I may speak frankly with you now! No worries, the foxh
unt is ended, your foolish Christian companions no longer hound you to recognize me. I am glad of that as well. After all, it was not for me that I began our correspondence, but for you. When you—I remember your words exactly—“were dragged through the doorway” into Christianity by your own common sense, you said that I had abandoned you. That, I confess, was true. I feel parental to you in that sense; have you not heard of the mother bird fleeing the nest so that her chicks are not dependent upon her? If you have not yet read John’s book The Hobbit, I highly suggest you do. 

Now, don’t write back enraged at my apparent desertion. It led to your recognition of me for what I am—truly nothing. A mere signpost. An old, maiden aunt with whom you corresponded. I do not need to reap what I sowed, even if it was several decades in the making. It took me thirty-three years to ask me the most important question—Whom do I desire? Not “what do I desire”, not “I love you”, but “Whom do I desire”? It was then that I knew that my letters and visits would stop. I am satisfied being a signpost, now that you know that is what I am. I look forward to meeting in person, dare I say in persona Christi?

Your faithful companion,

Joy