skygiants: the aunts from Pushing Daisies reading and sipping wine on a couch (wine and books)
For many years I have been saying 'I must reread the Narnia books,' a thing I somehow have not done in the seventeen or so years I've been actively keeping track of my reading habits. I said this in the late 2000s when the new movies were coming out, and I said it again a couple years ago when I read Til We Have Faces for the first time, and then I said it several times over the past few months while I was rewatching all the 1980s BBC Narnia adaptations with local friends, and then last week my friend was doing a blitz reread of the whole series for a con panel and I had finally said it enough times that I decided to join her instead of just talking about it.

For background: yes, the Narnia books were some of my favorite books when I was a child; they're the first books I actively remember reading on my own, that made me go 'ah! this thing, reading, is worth doing, and not just a dull task set to me by adults!' (This goes to show how memory is imperfect: my parents say that the first book that they remember me reading, before Narnia, was The Borrowers. But they also say that I then went immediately looking for Borrowers behind light sockets which perhaps is why I do not remember reading it first.)

I also cannot remember a time that I did not know that the big lion was supposed to be Jesus. This did not really put me off Narnia or Aslan -- I had a lion named Aslan that was my favorite stuffed animal all through my childhood -- but I did have a vague sense As A Jewish Child that it was sort of embarrassing for everyone concerned, including the lion, C.S. Lewis, and me. My favorites were Silver Chair, Horse And His Boy, and Magician's Nephew. I reread The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe often simply because it was the first one; Prince Caspian didn't leave much of an impression on me and I only really liked Dawn Treader for Eustace's dragon sequence; The Last Battle filled me with deep secondhand embarrassment.

Rereading, I discover that I had great taste; Silver Chair simply stays winning! The experience of reading the first three Pevensie books is a constant hunt for little crumbs of individuality and personality in the Pevensie children beyond their Situations and how willing they are to listen to advice from Big Lion; Jill and Eustace and Puddleglum, by contrast, have personality coming out their ears. I cherish every one of them. The dark Arthuriana vibes when they meet the knight and his lady out riding ... the whole haunted sequence underground .... Puddleglum's Big Speech .... this is, was, and will ever be peak Narnia to me. For all the various -isms of Horse And His Boy, it feels really clear that Lewis leveled up in writing Character somewhere between Dawn Treader and Silver Chair; Shasta and Aravis and the horses and Polly and Diggory all just have a lot more chances to bonk against each other in interesting ways and show off who they are than the Pevensies ever do.

However! I also had bad taste. I did not appreciate Caspian as it ought to have been appreciated. Now, on my reread, it's by far my favorite of the Pevensie-forward texts -- and partly I suppose that, as a child, I could not fully have been expected to appreciate the whole 'we came back to a place we used to know and a life we used to have and even as we're remembering the people we used to be there we're realizing it's all fundamentally changed' melancholy of it all. It's good! The Pevensies also just get to do more on their own and use more of their own actual skills than they do in either The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe, where they're mostly led around by the nose, or Dawn Treader, where they're mostly just having a nice boat trip. Just a soupcon of Robinsoniad in your Narnia, as a treat.

I also came away with the impression that Dawn Treader -- which really is primarily about Eustace and Reepicheep -- would be a better book if either Edmund or Lucy had gone on that trip but not both of them. The problem with Dawn Treader is that Edmund/Lucy/Caspian all kind of blob together in a cohort of being Just Sort Of Embarrassed By Eustace -- Edmund and Caspian particularly -- and don't get a lot to individuate them or give them Problems. Edmund and Caspian's dialogue is frequently almost interchangeable. But an Edmund who has Lucy's trials at the magician's tower and has to deal more with his existing/leftover issues from the first book is more interesting, and a Lucy who is stuck more in the middle of Caspian and Eustace without Edmund to over-balance the stakes is more interesting. I expect people will want me to fight me on this though because I know a lot of people have Dawn Treader as their favorite ....

Other miscellaneous observations:

- obviously I am aware of the Susan Problem but man, reading for Susan and Lucy through the later books it is clear how much the gradual tilting of the scales to Lucy Good/Susan Bad does a disservice to both characters. This is especially noticeable IMO in Horse And His Boy; it makes no sense for Lucy to go to war with a bow while Susan stays behind in context of anything we know about those characters from Lion and Caspian, it is so purely an exercise in Lucy Is The Designated Cool Girl Now. Anyway, what I really want now is an AU where Susan does marry out of Narnia sometime in the Golden Age and instead of becoming the One Who Never Comes Back becomes the One Who Never Leaves

- it is very very funny that every King or Queen of Narnia talks like Shakespeare except for Caspian, who talks, as noted above, like a British schoolboy. My Watsonian explanation for this is that the Pevensies were like 'well, kings talk like Shakespeare' and consciously developed this as an affectation whereas Caspian, who met the Pevensies as schoolchildren at a formative age, was like 'well, kings talk like British schoolchildren' and consciously developed it as an affectation --

- if you are on Bluesky you may have already seen me make this joke but it is so funny to be rolling along in Narnia pub order and have C.S. Lewis come careening back in for Magician's Nephew like 'WAIT! STOP!! I forgot to mention earlier but Jadis? She is hot. You know Lady Dimitrescu? yeah JUST like that. I just want to make sure we all know'

- Last Battle still fills me with secondhand embarrassment
skygiants: Mary Lennox from the Secret Garden opening the garden door (garden)
John le Carré's Our Game, about miserable ex-spies, and C.S. Lewis' Til We Have Faces, about Cupid and Psyche and the meaning of divine love, are absolutely not in deliberate conversation with each other. However I read one immediately after the other and so by the magic of coincidental juxtaposition I could not stop myself from making my little string diagrams between Orual and Timbo, unreliable narrators who have been cut to the quick by the fact that the people they've decided to love as they retreat from a meaningless world have committed the unforgivable sin of deciding -- against all odds and evidence! -- that there might in fact be something in the world worth believing in.

Otherwise of course Orual and Timbo are not much alike. Orual, in fact, is a classic YA heroine (affectionate) in ways that often surprised me to see from Clive Staples Lewis. I knew that this book was Cupid and Psyche from the POV of one of Psyche's sisters; I did not know that Orual is also a natural with a sword and spends a lot of this book coming of age & into power via training montages and significant costume choices and heroic duels. These are not the most important things about her but they're things I had a good time with.

However, the most important things about Orual are that she is desperate for love and furiously angry at the gods, and she is probably not right about these things (Lewis in fact wants to make quite sure by the end that we know she is not right) but she IS sublime about it.

What woman can have patience with the man who can yet be deceived by his doxy's fawning after he has thrice proved her false? I should be just like such a man if a mere burst of fair weather, and fresh grass after a long drought, and health after sickness could make me friends again with this god-haunted, plague-breeding, decaying, tyrannous world. I had seen. I was not a fool. I did not know then, however, as I do now, the strongest reason for distrust. The gods never send us this invitation to delight so readily or so strongly as when they are preparing some new agony. We are their bubbles; they blow us big before they prick us.

But I held my own without that knowledge. I ruled myself. Did they think I was nothing but a pipe to be played on as their moment's fancy chose?


GET EM HAMLET. I love this sort of self-defeating desperate bitter human dignity, the absolutely useless attempt to punch up at something that can't possibly be punched; I can't help it. It was actually quite odd reading this for the first time because she's so very much the pattern of a sort of character I love that it feels like I must have read her at such a formative age that she shaped my brain hereafter -- but I'm sure I didn't! this is my first time meeting her!

& for much of the book it is actually really beautifully balanced on an edge between Orual's anger at and defiance of [the force of divinity however you want to take it], and Psyche's willingness to open herself up to the beauty and possibility of the same, and the atheist-humanist perspective represented by the enslaved Greek philosopher who serves as their father figure, which finds divinity only in humans and the world and things that can be rationally explained. It lays out Orual's accusations against the gods, and lets you see and decide for yourself about the places where she's lying to herself, or using her love and desperation as a weapon, and there may be room for more than she's willing to see or understand.

Then of course the last couple chapters enter into a dream sequence wherein Mr. Lewis explains to us and Orual how we all actually ought to feel about divine love, which obviously gets my back up and makes me want to fight him just for the sake of it. But one can't expect to get through a C.S. Lewis book without a little Christian allegory, and if you're going to fight with a book it might as well be one worth fighting with, which this is; I really genuinely did love it.

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