Cautivado por la Alegría

Por C.S. Lewis

Cautivado por la Alegría es la narración autobiográfica que C.S. Lewis escribió para responder a las numerosas peticiones que le llegaron para que relatara su proceso de conversión al cristianismo. Se remonta para ello a su propia infancia, de modo que "cuando llegue explícitamente la crisis espiritual, el lector pueda comprender qué clase de persona me habían hecho mi infancia y adolescencia".
Como indica el propio autor, se trata de una historia "insoportablemente personal" que, como ocurre con todo relato verdadero, una vez que se ha comenzado a leer, cuesta trabajo interrumpir su lectura. Es como si el lector asistiera a las investigaciones de un detective que quiere ir al fondo de un "caso" apasionante. Y todo ello presentado con la gracia poética y la fuerza narrativa de uno de los más grandes escritores de habla inglesa del siglo XX.

• Idioma: Español
• Editorial: Ediciones Encuentro
• Fecha de lanzamiento: 1 sept 2011
• ISBN: 9788499207599

C.S. Lewis

Clive Staples Lewis (1898-1963) was one of the intellectual giants of the twentieth century and arguably one of the most influential writers of his day. He was a Fellow and Tutor in English Literature at Oxford University until 1954, when he was unanimously elected to the Chair of Medieval and Renaissance Literature at Cambridge University, a position he held until his retirement. He wrote more than thirty books, allowing him to reach a vast audience, and his works continue to attract thousands of new readers every year. His most distinguished and popular accomplishments include Out of the Silent Planet, The Great Divorce, The Screwtape Letters, and the universally acknowledged classics The Chronicles of Narnia. To date, the Narnia books have sold over 100 million copies and have been transformed into three major motion pictures. Clive Staples Lewis (1898-1963) fue uno de los intelectuales más importantes del siglo veinte y podría decirse que fue el escritor cristiano más influyente de su tiempo. Fue profesor particular de literatura inglesa y miembro de la junta de gobierno en la Universidad Oxford hasta 1954, cuando fue nombrado profesor de literatura medieval y renacentista en la Universidad Cambridge, cargo que desempeñó hasta que se jubiló. Sus contribuciones a la crítica literaria, literatura infantil, literatura fantástica y teología popular le trajeron fama y aclamación a nivel internacional. C. S. Lewis escribió más de treinta libros, lo cual le permitió alcanzar una enorme audiencia, y sus obras aún atraen a miles de nuevos lectores cada año. Sus más distinguidas y populares obras incluyen Las Crónicas de Narnia, Los Cuatro Amores, Cartas del Diablo a Su Sobrino y Mero Cristianismo.

Vista previa del libro

posible.

I. LOS PRIMEROS AÑOS

Feliz, pero, a fuer de feliz, inseguro.

MILTON

Nací en Belfast durante el invierno de 1898; hijo de un notario y de la hija de un pastor protestante. Mis padres sólo tuvieron dos hijos, ambos varones, de los cuales yo era el más pequeño, con unos tres años de diferencia. En nuestra formación se unieron dos tendencias muy distintas. Mi padre pertenecía a la primera generación de su familia que ejercía una carrera. Su abuelo había sido agricultor en Gales; su padre, hombre autodidacta, había empezado su vida como obrero, emigrando a Irlanda, y había terminado como socio de la firma Macilwaine and Lewis, «caldereros, ingenieros y armadores de buques». Mi madre era una Hamilton con muchas generaciones de clérigos, abogados, marinos y otros profesionales a sus espaldas; por parte de su madre, a través de los Warrens, la dinastía llegaba hasta un caballero normando cuyos restos descansan en la abadía de Battle. Las dos familias de las que desciendo eran tan diferentes en su temperamento como en su origen. La familia de mi padre era verdaderamente galesa, sentimental, apasionada y melodramática, fácilmente dada tanto a la ira como a la ternura; hombres que reían y lloraban con facilidad y que no tenían demasiada capacidad para ser felices. Los Hamilton eran una raza más fría. Tenían una mente crítica e irónica y la capacidad de ser felices desarrolladísima; iban derechos a la felicidad, como el viejo avezado va hacia el mejor asiento en un tren. Desde mi más tierna infancia ya era consciente del gran contraste que había entre el cariño alegre y pacífico de mi madre y los altibajos de la vida emocional de mi padre, y esto alimentó en mí, mucho antes de que fuera lo suficientemente mayor como para darle un nombre, una cierta desconfianza o aversión a las emociones como algo desapacible, violento e, incluso, peligroso.

Mis padres, según los cánones de aquel lugar y tiempo, eran gente «culta» o «ilustrada». Mi madre, que había sido una matemática prometedora en su juventud, cursó el Bachillerato en Artes en el Queen’s College de Belfast. Antes de morir me inició tanto en francés como en latín. Era una lectora voraz de buenas novelas y creo que las obras de Meredith y Tolstoi que he heredado las compraron para ella. Los gustos de mi padre eran totalmente distintos. Aficionado a la oratoria, había hablado en tribunas políticas en Inglaterra cuando era joven; si hubiera tenido medios propios seguramente hubiera aspirado a la carrera política. Si su sentido del honor, tan profundo que le hacía ser un Quijote, no le hubiera hecho tan poco dócil, hubiera tenido éxito en este campo, pues tenía muchas de las virtudes necesarias para ser parlamentario: buena presencia, voz potente, una mente rapidísima, elocuencia y memoria. Le entusiasmaban las novelas políticas de Trollope; supongo que al seguir la carrera de Phineas Finn lo que hacía era satisfacer indirectamente sus propios deseos. Le gustaba la poesía siempre que tuviera elementos retóricos o patéticos, o ambos; creo que entre las obras de Shakespeare, Otelo era su favorita. Disfrutaba enormemente con casi todos los autores humorísticos, desde Dickens a W. W. Jacobs, y él mismo era el mejor raconteur que yo haya oído, apenas tenía rival; era el mejor en esta faceta, haciendo todos los personajes por turno con total libertad en el uso de muecas, gestos y pantomimas. Nunca era tan feliz como cuando se encerraba durante una hora, más o menos, con uno o dos de mis tíos para contarse «gracias» (como llamábamos en nuestra familia a las anécdotas). Ni él ni mi madre sintieron la menor atracción por el tipo de literatura a la que me entregué con verdadera devoción en el momento en que pude elegir los libros por mí mismo. Ninguno había prestado atención a las «muelas de los elfos»¹. En casa no había ningún volumen de Keats o Shelley, y el de Coleridge nunca lo habían abierto, que yo sepa. Mis padres no tienen ninguna culpa de que yo sea un romántico. De hecho, a mi padre le gustaba Tennyson, pero era el Tennyson de In Memoriam y Locksley Hall. Nunca oí hablar de su Lotus Eaters o de la Morte d’Arthur. Según me dicen, el interés de mi madre por la poesía era nulo.

Además de unos buenos padres, buena comida y un jardín (que entonces me parecía grande) en el que jugar, mi vida empezó con otras dos bendiciones. Una era nuestra niñera, Lizzie Endicott, en la que ni siquiera el preciso recuerdo de la infancia puede descubrir un solo defecto, sólo amabilidad, alegría y sensatez. En aquellos días no se decían tonterías sobre las «niñeras». A través de Lizzie nos sumergimos en el ambiente campesino de County Down. Así, nos desenvolvíamos con soltura en dos mundos sociales totalmente distintos. A esto debo el haberme inmunizado para siempre contra la falsa identificación entre refinamiento y virtud que algunos hacen. Desde antes de lo que puedo recordar, ya había comprendido que ciertos chistes se podían compartir con Lizzie, pero no se podían contar en el salón; y también que Lizzie era simplemente buena, todo lo buena que puede ser una persona.

La otra bendición era mi hermano. Aunque era tres años mayor que yo, nunca me pareció un hermano mayor; fuimos aliados, por no decir confederados, desde el principio. Sin embargo, éramos muy distintos. Nuestros primeros dibujos (y no puedo recordar ninguna época en que no estuviéramos dibujando constantemente) lo revelan. Los suyos eran de barcos, trenes y batallas; los míos, cuando no eran copia de los suyos, eran de los que llamábamos «animales vestidos» (los animales antropomorfizados de la literatura infantil). Su primer cuento (ya que mi hermano me precedió en el paso del dibujo a la escritura) se llamó El joven Rajá. Él ya había tomado la India como «su país»; el mío era «Animalandia». No creo que ninguno de los dibujos que conservo pertenezcan a los seis primeros años de mi vida que ahora estoy describiendo, pero tengo muchos que no pueden ser muy posteriores. Mirándolos, me parece que yo tenía más talento. Desde muy pequeño dibujaba figuras en movimiento que dan la impresión de correr realmente, y la perspectiva es buena. Pero en ninguna parte, ni en el trabajo de mi hermano ni en el mío, hay una sola línea dibujada en obediencia a una idea de belleza, por primitiva que fuese. Hay acción, comedia, invención; pero no hay ni siquiera el germen de un gusto por el diseño, y hay una chocante ignorancia de la forma natural. Los árboles parecen bolas de algodón pinchadas en postes y nada demuestra que ninguno de los dos conociera la forma de las hojas que había en el jardín donde jugábamos casi a diario. Esta ausencia de belleza, ahora que pienso en ello, es una característica de nuestra infancia. Ninguno de los cuadros que colgaban en las paredes de la casa de mi padre atraía nuestra atención y, de hecho, ninguno la merecía. Nunca vimos un edificio bonito, ni podíamos imaginar que un edificio pudiera serlo. Mis primeras experiencias estéticas, si es que lo eran, no fueron de ese tipo; ya eran incurablemente románticas, no formales. Una vez, por aquellos días, mi hermano trajo al cuarto de jugar la tapa de una lata de galletas que había cubierto con musgo y adornado con ramitas y flores para convertirla en un jardín, o en un bosque, de juguete. Ésa fue la primera cosa bella que vi. Lo que no había conseguido el jardín de verdad lo consiguió el de juguete. Me hizo darme cuenta de la naturaleza, no como almacén de formas y colores, sino como algo fresco, húmedo, tierno, exuberante. No creo que me impresionara mucho en aquel momento, pero pronto se convertiría en un recuerdo importante. Mientras viva, mi imagen del Paraíso siempre tendrá algo del jardín de juguete de mi hermano. Y allí estaban a diario lo que llamábamos «las Verdes Colinas», esto es, las faldas de los montes de Castereagh, que veíamos desde las ventanas del cuarto de jugar. No estaban demasiado lejos, pero para unos niños como nosotros eran inaccesibles. Me enseñaron a añorar —Sehnsucht—; me convirtieron, para bien o para mal, en adorador de la Flor Azul, ya antes de cumplir los seis años.

Si las experiencias estéticas fueron escasas, las religiosas no se produjeron jamás. Algunas personas sacan de mis libros la impresión de que fui criado en un puritanismo estricto e intenso, pero es absolutamente falso. Me enseñaban las cosas normales, me hacían rezar mis oraciones y a su debido tiempo me llevaron a la iglesia. Naturalmente, yo acepté lo que se me decía, pero no recuerdo haber puesto mucho interés en ello. Mi padre, lejos de ser especialmente puritano, era muy «elevado» para los cánones de la Iglesia irlandesa del siglo XIX, y su acercamiento a la religión, como a la literatura, era el polo opuesto de lo que más tarde sería el mío. El encanto de la tradición y la belleza literaria de la Biblia y del Libro de Oraciones (a los que yo tomé gusto mucho más tarde) eran su placer natural, y habría sido difícil encontrar un hombre tan inteligente que se ocupara tan poco de metafísicas. De la religión de mi madre apenas puedo decir nada por mi propio recuerdo. Mi infancia no tuvo ningún enfoque hacia el otro mundo. Exceptuando el jardín de juguete y «las Verdes Colinas», ni siquiera fue imaginativa; permanece en mi memoria fundamentalmente como un período de felicidad rutinaria y prosaica y no despierta la nostalgia conmovedora con que contemplo retrospectivamente mi niñez, mucho menos feliz. No es la felicidad habitual, sino la alegría de un momento dado, la que glorifica el pasado.

Hay una única excepción a esta alegría general. Mi primer recuerdo es el terror que me producían ciertos sueños. Es un problema muy común a esa edad; sin embargo, todavía me parece extraño que una infancia mimada y protegida pueda tener tan a menudo una ventana abierta a lo que es poco menos que el Infierno. Mis pesadillas eran de dos clases, unas sobre espectros y otras sobre insectos. Las segundas eran, sin punto de comparación, las peores; todavía hoy preferiría encontrarme con un fantasma antes que con una tarántula. Y todavía hoy casi podría razonarlo y justificar mi fobia. Como me dijo una vez Owen Barfield: «El problema con los insectos es que son como locomotoras francesas, tienen todas las piezas en el exterior». Las piezas, ese es el problema. Sus miembros angulares, sus movimientos espasmódicos, sus ruidos secos, metálicos, todo ello hace pensar en máquinas que han cobrado vida o en vida que ha degenerado a un puro mecanismo. Puedes añadir a esto que en la colmena y en el hormiguero vemos totalmente realizadas las dos cosas que algunos de nosotros tememos para nuestra propia especie, el dominio de la hembra y el dominio de la masa. Quizá valga la pena mencionar un hecho sobre la historia de esta fobia. Mucho más tarde, en mi adolescencia, después de leer Ants, Bees and Wasps de Lubbock, sentí durante algún tiempo un interés por los insectos genuinamente científico. Pronto le vencieron otros estudios; pero mientras duró mi período entomológico, casi desapareció mi miedo, y me inclino a pensar que una curiosidad real y objetiva tendrá generalmente este efecto purificador.

Me temo que los psicólogos no se contentarán con explicar mi miedo a los insectos atendiendo a lo que una generación más simple diagnosticaría como su causa, cierto dibujo horrible en uno de los libros del cuarto de jugar. En él, un niño enanito, una especie de Pulgarcito, estaba sobre una seta y un ciervo volador, mucho más grande que él, lo aterrorizaba desde abajo. Esto ya es bastante malo, pero ahora viene lo peor. Las extremidades delanteras del insecto eran tiras de cartón separadas de la página y se movían sobre un eje. Al manipular un artilugio diabólico en la parte de atrás hacías que se abrieran y cerraran como pinzas: clic-clac, clic-clac; lo veo mientras escribo. Es difícil entender cómo una mujer generalmente tan sensata como era mi madre pudo haber permitido que este horror entrara en el cuarto de jugar. A menos (ahora me asalta la duda), a menos que ese dibujo fuera producto de mi imaginación. Pero no lo creo.

En 1905, cuando tenía siete años, tuvo lugar el primer gran cambio en mi vida. Nos mudamos de casa. Mi padre, supongo que debido a que su situación económica había mejorado, decidió abandonar la casa de campo, casi aislada, en la que yo había nacido, y se construyó otra mucho más grande, más lejos, en lo que entonces era el campo. La «Casa Nueva», como seguimos llamándola durante años, era grande incluso para mi forma actual de ver las cosas; para un niño era mucho más parecida a una ciudad que a una casa. Mi padre, que tenía más capacidad para que le estafaran que ninguna otra persona que yo haya conocido, fue lamentablemente estafado por sus constructores: los desagües estaban mal hechos, las chimeneas estaban mal hechas, se producían corrientes de aire en todas las habitaciones, etc. Pero un niño no se preocupa por nada de esto. Para mí, lo más importante de la mudanza era que se ampliaba el ambiente en el que discurría mi vida. La Casa Nueva es casi el personaje más importante de mi historia. Soy producto de pasillos largos, habitaciones vacías y soleadas, silencios en las habitaciones interiores del piso de arriba, áticos explorados en solitario, ruidos distantes del goteo de las cisternas y cañerías y el sonido del viento bajo los tilos. También de libros sin fin. Mi padre compraba todos los libros que leía y nunca se desprendía de ellos. Había libros en el despacho, libros en el comedor, libros en el cuarto de baño, libros (en dos filas) en la gran estantería del rellano, libros en un dormitorio, libros apilados en columnas que llegaban a la altura de mi hombro en el recinto del depósito de agua del ático, libros de todo tipo que reflejaban cada etapa pasajera de los intereses de mis padres, libros legibles e ilegibles, libros apropiados para un niño y libros en absoluto aconsejables. Yo no tenía nada prohibido. En las interminables tardes de lluvia cogía de los estantes volumen tras volumen. Siempre tuve la certeza de encontrar un libro que fuera nuevo para mí, al igual que un hombre que camina por el campo sabe que va a encontrar una nueva brizna de hierba. ¿Dónde habían estado todos estos libros antes de que viniésemos a la Casa Nueva?; es un problema en el que nunca había pensado antes de ponerme a escribir este párrafo. No tengo ni idea de cuál puede ser la respuesta.

Puertas afuera estaba «el paisaje» por el que, sin duda, se había elegido aquel lugar. Desde la puerta principal se veía, hacia abajo, un vasto campo que llegaba a Belfast Lough y más allá los grandes acantilados de Antrim (Divis, Colin, Cave Hill). Esto era en los días ya lejanos en que Inglaterra dominaba el transporte mundial y Lough estaba lleno de barcos; una delicia para dos niños como nosotros, pero más para mi hermano. El ruido de las sirenas de los vapores por la noche todavía me trae a la mente toda mi niñez. Detrás de la casa, más verdes, bajas y cercanas que los acantilados de Antrim, estaban las colinas de Holywood, pero no fue hasta mucho más tarde cuando les presté atención. Al principio lo que me importaba era el panorama del noroeste; las interminables puestas de sol del verano por detrás de los escollos azules y las rocas alzándose por encima de mi casa. En este ambiente empezaron a producirse una serie de cambios dolorosos.

El primero fue que despacharon a mi hermano enviándolo a un internado, separándolo así de mi lado durante la mayor parte del año. Recuerdo muy bien la inmensa alegría cuando volvía a casa de vacaciones, pero no me acuerdo de que hubiera la correspondiente tristeza cuando se marchaba. Su nueva vida no hizo cambiar nuestras relaciones. Mientras tanto yo continuaba con mi educación en casa; mi madre me enseñaba francés y latín y una institutriz excelente, Annie Harper, todo lo demás. Para mí esta mujer bondadosa y discreta era entonces una pesadilla, pero todo lo que recuerdo me hace ver que era injusto. Era presbiteriana y la primera cosa que puedo recordar que trajese a mi mente el otro mundo con algún realismo fue una lectura bastante larga que intercaló en una ocasión entre sumas y copias. Pero había muchas cosas en las que yo pensaba más. Mi vida real, o lo que el recuerdo me trae como mi vida real, era cada vez más solitaria. En realidad había mucha gente con la que podía hablar: mis padres; mi abuelo Lewis, prematuramente viejo y sordo, que vivía con nosotros; las doncellas, y un jardinero viejo bastante «borrachín». Creo que yo era un charlatán insoportable. Pero la soledad siempre estaba al alcance de mi mano en algún lugar del jardín o de la casa. Ya había aprendido a leer y escribir: tenía montones de cosas que hacer.

Lo que me llevó a escribir fue la extrema torpeza manual que siempre he sufrido. Lo atribuyo a un defecto físico que tanto mi hermano como yo heredamos de nuestro padre: sólo tenemos una articulación en el dedo pulgar. La articulación de arriba (la más cercana a la uña) está ahí, pero es una mera ficción; no la podemos doblar. Pero sea cual sea la causa, la naturaleza me dotó desde mi nacimiento de una incapacidad interior para hacer cualquier cosa. Con un lápiz y una pluma era suficientemente mañoso, y todavía sé hacer un lazo tan perfecto como el de una corbata de pajarita, pero siempre he sido incapaz de aprender a manejar una herramienta, una raqueta, un arma de fuego, unos gemelos o un sacacorchos. Esto fue lo que me obligó a escribir. Tenía muchas ganas de hacer cosas: barcos, casas, motores..., y estropeé muchas cartulinas y tijeras sólo para salir de mis fracasos llorando y sin esperanza. Como último recurso, como pis aller², acabé escribiendo cuentos; no podía imaginar a qué mundo de felicidad estaba siendo admitido. Puedes hacer más cosas con un castillo en un cuento que con el mejor castillo de cartulina jamás visto en la mesa de un cuarto de jugar.

Pronto exigí una habitación en el ático y la convertí en «mi despacho». Colgué en las paredes dibujos hechos por mí mismo o recortados de revistas navideñas de brillantes colores. Allí guardé mi pluma, el tintero, cuadernos y una caja de pinturas; y allí

¿Cabe a una criatura mayor felicidad

que disfrutar la vida en libertad?

Aquí escribí e ilustré, con gran satisfacción, mis primeros cuentos. Intentaban combinar mis dos placeres literarios principales, los «animales vestidos» y los «caballeros armados». El resultado fue que escribí sobre ratones y conejos caballerescos que, con sus cotas de malla, cabalgaban para matar gatos en vez de gigantes. Pero ya había calado en mí el humor del hombre sistemático, el mismo humor inagotable que llevó a Trollope a producir sus Barsetshire. La Animalandia que iniciamos durante las vacaciones, cuando mi hermano estaba en casa, fue una Animalandia moderna. Tenía que tener trenes y barcos de vapor para que la pudiéramos compartir. De ello se derivó que la Animalandia medieval sobre la que yo escribía debía ser el mismo país que en el período anterior; y, por supuesto, ambos períodos tenían que ser perfectamente consecutivos. Esto me llevó del romance a la historiografía; me puse a escribir una historia completa de Animalandia. Aunque todavía existe alguna versión de este instructivo trabajo, no tuve éxito al traerlo a los tiempos modernos; los siglos cuentan con gran cantidad de acontecimientos y todos ellos tienen que salir de la mente del historiador. Pero hay una pincelada en la Historia que todavía recuerdo con orgullo. Las aventuras que llenaban mis cuentos estaban sólo insinuadas y se advertía al lector que podían ser «sólo leyendas». De algún modo, Dios sabe cómo, me daba cuenta, incluso entonces, de que un historiador podría adoptar una actitud crítica hacia el material épico. Desde la historia sólo había un paso hacia la geografía. Pronto hubo un mapa de Animalandia, varios mapas, todos ellos con bastante coherencia. Después tuve que relacionar geográficamente Animalandia con la India de mi hermano y, en consecuencia, la India abandonó su lugar del mundo real. La convertimos en una isla cuya costa norte corría por detrás del Himalaya; rápidamente mi hermano inventó las principales rutas de navegación entre ella y Animalandia. Pronto hubo todo un mundo y un mapa de ese mundo en el que aparecían todos los colores de mi caja de pinturas. Y las zonas de ese mundo que considerábamos nuestras, Animalandia y la India, se fueron habitando con personajes verosímiles.

Muy pocos de los libros que leí en aquel momento se han desvanecido de mi memoria, pero no conservo el mismo cariño hacia todos ellos. Nunca me he sentido inclinado a leer de nuevo el Sir Nigel de Conan Doyle, el primero que trajo a mi mente los «caballeros armados». Todavía menos leería ahora Un Yanki en la Corte del Rey Arturo de Mark Twain, que entonces

Comentarios para Cautivado por la Alegría

[justagirlwithabook · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

This book is part of my C.S. Lewis collection. I went through a huge phase where I was just obsessed with anything and everything by him. While I don't agree with all of his theology, I do love his writing style and the things he has to say about faith. He was a good one.

[judycroome_1 · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

I might not have been surprised by joy as I read this book - it was far to factually autobiographical for me, and not what I expected - but I was surprised by how much I enjoyed parts of it. Both Lewis's description of his childhood education (and the hotbed of homo-eroticism that private boys-only schools were) was brilliant and non-judgemental and his glossed-over, but no less harrowing, account of his experience in WW1, provided an intriguing glimpse into a byone era.Perhaps this was my biggest problem with the book - I expected a deeply inspiring, imaginative and very personal account of his spiritual awakening. Instead, this book is mainly autbiographical with a few paragraphs here and there covering his spiritual journey. Emotion was thin on the ground - intellectual scholarship was densely packed into each sentence.Thanks to my long ago classical studies I could wade through the allusions without getting too lost, but still ... I wanted to be inspired, to feel what Lewis felt as he journeyed back to his God.Instead, it took me nearly two weeks to struggle through it because as a rule, I don't read autobiographies. Ultimately, this was more biographical than it was spiritual and thus SURPRISED BY JOY didn't meet my expectations as a reader.

[cameronbrooks · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

In this book Lewis tells of his search for joy, a spiritual journey that led him from the Christianity of his early youth into atheism and then back to Christianity.

[2wondery_1 · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

I certainly identified with Lewis’ evolution in faith. He describes it so spot-on, and provides certain key literature works; some I’d like to explore. He occasionally goes off subject and delights, such as describing the different cast of sunlight in Ireland compared to England. I’ve never read a better nonfiction writer for nailing descriptions.

[bookman1954 · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

An awesome inspirational book that takes us through the life of C.S. Lewis, but could it could be our own story also. From childhood to the teen years Lewis struggles through many of the same life, spiritual conflicts that everyone goes through. The inspiration comes to those who know what he did with his life later and the lessons he took from his early life. Narnia is often considered his and his brothers play time adventures. These adventures as young child may have been just play, but the depth of his learning and philosophy formed in his early life formed the basis for all his writing. From his falling away to his return to Christianity, it was his early life experience that brought him to the point of being a true man of God.

[imperfectcj · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

I very nearly loved this book. Lewis's path---although very different from my own---resonates with me in so many ways. Lewis has so many insightful things to say, and I found myself citing this book frequently in conversations. My spouse was very tolerant of this. He did gradually follow up my, "You know, this reminds me of something C.S. Lewis says in his Surprised by Joy..." with a mumbled "Of course it does." But he still listened to what I said next.

Most of the things Lewis says that I found near mind-blowing, other people didn't seem excited about at all when I relayed them, which was a little frustrating. Throughout the book, Lewis paints himself as a man apart from the crowd, someone misunderstood and largely content to be so. I shouldn't have been surprised that other people didn't share my excitement when I talked about the ways in which I could relate to a fellow who couldn't really relate to other people.

I do think I understand better some of the anti-Lewis sentiment I hear sometimes. The first thirteen chapters were, I thought, awesome, aside from a few gratuitous judgmental bits he tosses in there without much elaboration (like that one of his friends was nearly as exasperating to talk to as a woman). These were especially annoying because he goes to such lengths to see things from different perspectives and to avoid judgment in most all of the book. These rare moments of judgment seem out of character, like he's trying to be chummy with the reader in a way, tossing out little conversational barbs.

Or maybe these are rare moments of the true Lewis that he masks the majority of the time, because it does happen with more areas more pertinent to the book's subject. At one point, Lewis defines "chronological snobbery" as "the assumption that whatever has gone out of date is on that account discredited." Later he claims that Paganism is merely a stepping stone to more mature religions, and seems completely oblivious to the fact that this smacks of the very "chronological snobbery" he claims to have sloughed off. The only other proof he offers that Paganism "had been the childhood of religion" is the fact that he embraced it when he was a child, and he later decided it wasn't doing it for him and moved on to something else. It's fine if he's made this personal conclusion so long as he doesn't make it sound as though it's an established truth.

I understand how Lewis makes the transition from Atheism to Theism, but I don't really get how he goes from a belief in God to belief in a very specific, anthropomorphic God who acts directly and consciously in the universe, and I really don't get how he makes the leap from here to Christianity. (But then, perhaps from "anthropomorphic God" to "anthropomorphic God coming to Earth as a human for the purpose of dying for our sins" it's more a step than a leap.) This might be just because he doesn't understand how he became Christian, either (which he admits in Chapter XV). This is totally fine, except that I thought that was kind of what the book was supposed to be about, and I really wanted to know how he got from Atheism to Christianity. Maybe if I want that, I need to read more of his other writings on Christianity.

You know, my overall reaction to this book reminds me of two things C.S. Lewis says in his Surprised by Joy:

"Of course he shares your interests...[b]ut he has approached them all from a different angle. He has read all the right books but has got all the wrong thing out of every one. It is as if he spoke your language but mispronounced it."

and

"I was by now a sufficiently experienced reader to distinguish liking from agreement. I did not need to accept what [Lewis] said in order to enjoy it."

One more thing: I'm re-reading The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe with my kids right now, and I'm finding a lot of Lewis's conversion story and opinions about his own childhood beliefs about religion and faith woven through there since reading Surprised by Joy. I worry that some of the magic of both books is suffering as a result.

[chris_el-1 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

It was interesting to note that much of what he wrote about his own growing up was not new since I have read a couple biographies of him and the info on his early years is very much drawn from this book.

I loved what he said about experience. I don't have the book with me now to quote it but he explained that when you stop experiencing and start to analyze it you stop experiencing. He pointed out that he realized he missed out on a lot by analyzing it to death instead of just living in the moment to its fullest. I'm frequently guilty of this myself and didn't realize it until he started talking about it.

Good book and well worth the read.

[highlander6022 · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

As is typical for a Lewis book, a very, very deep discussion, and at times,very difficult to follow. Perhaps the most difficult parts are Lewis' reference to so many literary classics of his time, most of which someone today would likely have very limited knowledge - so it is difficult to relate to how he is explaining his experience. However, his movement from his childhood days to his eventually embracing Christianity always move forward. It is very interesting to hear him discuss the influences of the early death of his mother, his less than satisfactory relationship with his father afterward, his close relationship with his brother and and the wildly varying relationships with his teachers and adult acquaintances had on his life and coming to Christianity. Despite the difficulty of reading the book at times, I thoroughly enjoyed it and am encouraged to pick up another one of his books in the future.

[mariefriesen · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

In this book Lewis tells of his search for joy, a spiritual journey that led him from the Christianity of his early youth into atheism and then back to Christianity.

[6boysandme · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

I love Lewis, in a way only he can he says how I have always felt but never been intelligent enough to put into words. I finished this book in the quiet of an early morning in my little nephews messy room, tears and hugging the book followed. What a treat!

[atimco-1 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

C. S. Lewis's Surprised By Joy is subtitled "The Shape of My Early Life," and is mainly about his childhood and young adulthood. In this spiritual autobiography Lewis traces the slow hand of God moving in the events and influences of his young life, through his atheism and finally into his spiritual surrender when he finally, reluctantly admitted that "God was God" (228).Some things shocked me (I can't take the rampant pederasty of British public schools with quite Lewis's aplomb); other things merely surprised me. I learned a lot of things I didn't know about Lewis, such as his difficult relationship with his brilliant but eccentric father, his various boarding-school experiences, and his interest in the occult.He traces his atheism and general pessimism about life as far back as the chronic, unusually marked clumsiness he possessed even as a child. He believes that because of this clumsiness, he soon grew to expect that everything he touched would go wrong somehow, that things going well was the exception and not the rule. His mother's death of cancer when he was ten years old also had a profound effect on his worldview.Lewis also explores his early creative and rational influences. His friend Arthur had a strong part in helping Lewis appreciate what Arthur termed "Homeliness," a type of cozy beauty in sharp contrast to Lewis's passion for Wagner and Norse mythology and what he called "Northernness." This passion Arthur also shared, but rounded it with a love of simple, wholesome sights and ideas. Lewis also talks about his friend Jenkins who taught him to savor the taste of everything, even ugly things, to enjoy them fully for what they are. The influence of Lewis's strictly rationalist tutor, William Kirkpatrick, is also acknowledged as a deep debt. All of this is written in Lewis's characteristically excellent prose. I loved this passage about his final thrashings before accepting the reality of God:The fox had been dislodged from Hegelian Wood and was now running in the open, "with all the wo in the world," bedraggled and weary, hounds barely a field behind. And nearly everyone was now (in one way or another) in the pack; Plato, Dante, MacDonald, Herbert, Barfield, Tolkien, Dyson, Joy itself. Everyone and everything had joined the other side. (225)I am finding that the more I learn about Lewis, the more divided I become. I agree with him more; I agree with him less. It is hard to really articulate where we are different (well, besides his obvious and all-permeating Arminian leanings which conflict sharply with my Calvinist tenets). I think one of the issues may be Lewis's reliance on and almost religious respect for literature besides the Bible. Of course he is detailing a period in which he was first reading the world's great literature as a student and lover of beauty, so naturally he will have a lot to say about its influence on his thinking and development. And I have to remember too that Lewis is a Christian thinker, not a pastor charged with preaching the full counsel of God and illuminating Scripture to his flock. I do think, however, that at bottom I have a much deeper reverence for Scripture than Lewis has displayed in the books of his that I've read so far. This both simplifies and complicates my thoughts about him and his work. The thread that ties everything together in this story is the central idea of Joy, which Lewis describes as the "unsatisfied desire which is itself more desirable than any other satisfaction" (17–18). These flashes of beauty, themselves insufficient, point to something else, something outside the person experiencing this longing. Ultimately Lewis connects Joy with the desire to know the source of all Joy, God. Those flashes of beauty and the unfulfilled longings are divinely given. And yet they are not the goal. Lewis writes, But what, in conclusion, of Joy? for that, after all, is what the story has been mainly about. To tell you the truth, the subject has lost nearly all interest for me since I became a Christian... I believe (if the thing were at all worth recording) that the old stab, the old bittersweet, has come to me as often and as sharply since my conversion as at any time of my life whatever. But I now know that the experience, considered as a state of my own mind, had never had the kind of importance I once gave it. It was valuable only as a pointer to something other and outer. While that other was in doubt, the pointer naturally loomed large in my thoughts. When we are lost in the woods the sight of a signpost is a great matter... But when we have found the road and are passing signposts every few miles, we shall not stop and stare. They will encourage us and we will be grateful to the authority that set them up. But we shall not stop and stare, or not much; not on this road, though their pillars are of silver and their lettering of gold. "We would be at Jerusalem." (238)This was a fascinating read on so many levels. Recommended.

[karin7-11 · Calificación: 2 de 5 estrellas]

Like so many others, I greatly enjoyed the Narnia series when I was growing up. I read it for fun and had no idea that it was a Christian allegory until I was an adult. While my daughters enjoyed them (one has read them at least four times) they disappointed me somewhat as an adult. However, I have tried a few times to read other books by Lewis, but this is the first one I’ve made it all the way through. To be honest, what kept me going is that this will be part of a book discussion with some old reading friends. I read a chapter per day as if it were a school assignment.The two stars are not because Lewis was unable to write or articulate his thoughts, because he certainly did. However, as a memoir of his journey to atheism and then to Christianity, a subject of keen interest to me, it ended up having little appeal. It was more of his educational and intellectual journey through his youth, punctuated by descriptions of life away at different schools, until he became a Christian. Of course, it’s another example of a brilliant intellectual coming around from atheism to Christianity, something so many feel is impossible, but there was little to tug at my heartstrings or to empathize or sympathize as much with him as I would have liked to given so many of his circumstances. Perhaps it’s because he write it when he was will into his fifties and was so far removed, but I think perhaps it may have been because he was not ever given to having many friends when he was growing up, nor did he really want them most of the time, and those he did make were usually as intellectual as he was.That said, Lewis had some interesting insights at times, but what I found irksome was that girls and women tend to only appear as the odd relative hosting some sort of gathering (his mother died when he was very young) almost another species, or were referred to in light of erotic passion not being a substitute for joy, or how lack of girls in the area led to increased pederasty in public school and how it affected or was affected by the social hierarchy (that’s the term he employed for that) or other things equally bereft of any recognition of women as humans with a capacity for intelligence.

[ctpress_1 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

“In reading Chesterton, as in reading MacDonald, I did not know what I was letting myself in for. A young man who wishes to remain a sound Atheist cannot be too careful of his reading. There are traps everywhere — "Bibles laid open, millions of surprises," as Herbert says, "fine nets and stratagems." God is, if I may say it, very unscrupulous.”In Surprised by Joy C. S. Lewis describes his life from his early childhood up to about 30 years of age when he was converted to Christianity. A journey from atheism, to theism and finally to the Christian faith. I liked the first part of the book best. His description of home in Ireland, the loss of his mother which marked him for life, the estranged father, the close connection with his brother Warnie. A lot of space is devoted to his very bad experiences in school, the horrible teachers and the cruel fellow students. Also a lot about how his logical thinking is sharpened by his teacher and mentor, The Great Knock, W. T. Kirkpatrick.Surprised by Joy reminded me of how our faith is shaped by so many things, not only our own pursuits and reasonings, but experiences in childhood and youth, the friends we have, the mentors and peers we learn from.Lewis kind of lost me in many of his philosophical thinking about the source of “Joy” about nordic and greek myths and the “true myth” of Christianity. His journey to faith in Christianity didn’t resonate with my own - but that is the beauty of it. We all have our own spiritual journey and the “leap of faith” is highly individual.

[josborne-1 · Calificación: 2 de 5 estrellas]

You will need to be a literary buff or extremely well versed in literature to appreciate this book, for it has numerous literary references to explain his ideas. It is a description of his non-Christian days before conversion which I did not find interesting.

[dannywahlquist · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

I enjoyed this journey to accept the love of God. Some of my favorite quotes include:
I was now by no means unhappy; but I had very definitely formed the opinion that the universe was, in the main, a rather regrettable institution.
A young man who wishes to remain a sound Atheist cannot be too careful of his reading. There are traps everywhere
The hardness of God is kinder than the softness of men, and His compulsion is our liberation.

[justindtapp · Calificación: 2 de 5 estrellas]

Surprised by Joy: The Shape of My Early Life is an autobiography of C.S. Lewis' childhood to sometime in university.

The first several chapters of his schoolboy days are quite boring. It's almost as though he feels compelled to record the story for posterity but does not do so with much passion-- I don't think he looks back on his childhood with much enjoyment. His mother dies of cancer when he is young, and his father never fully recovers. His best friend was his slightly older brother. You don't get much of a sense of whether Lewis was affable or awkward; it appears he loved little more than reading.

Lewis was Irish and he and his brother initially attended a boarding school in England. I have never read any positive accounts of English schools, and this is no exception. All it seems to do is alienate kids from their families, who they see infrequently. The headmaster was likely insane. Later, Lewis attends a public high school and hates it and recounts the social drama. He criticizes current members of Parliament for insisting the English educational tradition continue. Lewis contends all it does is make people "priggish"-- snobbish and bitter. He is thankful that he didn't become as snobbish as others from the experiences.

Lewis learned Latin at an early age and began reading the classics. He also has an affinity for fantasy type books and enjoys mythology--something he has mixed feelings about. In his adolescence he makes friends with a neighbor boy who shares Lewis love for Norse mythology and other fiction--his first real friendship. Lewis eventually convinces his father to send him to live with a tutor to prepare reading for university exams. He later learns Greek and enjoys reading things like Herodotus' Histories in the original. He learns French and Italian to read classics in those languages, and enough German to get by (I'm rather envious at this point). England enters WWI, and Lewis' brother enters the service while Lewis prepares for university; he later decides to enlist and enter university afterwards. After a relatively mild Army service, Lewis is accepted to Oxford. He recounts his closest friendships, including with J.R. Tolkein, and his first real encounters with English literature, learning to appreciate Bronte and others.

From an early age, Lewis had decided on atheism. He almost feels guilty with his affinity for books involving mythology, pantheism, and the occult. He develops the typical intellectual elitism of university atheists, wondering how anyone could believe otherwise. But he's troubled by reading other intellectuals who don't hold to atheism, including French philosophers who espouse pantheism. Aren't these all unsatisfying? During his university days he reads G.K. Chesterton and enjoys him, despite his Christianity. Real blows to Lewis steadfast atheism occur when his closest friends become interested in Christianity and begin reading the Bible. He begins to appreciate the consistency of other Christians he meet who actually live out what they believe. He says one of the biggest blows came when an adamant atheist he knew commented on the evidence for historical veracity of the Gospels-- "one can almost believe those things happened." The man never became a Christian, but just the fact that the evidences of real events being behind the writings of Scripture being stronger than other classics that Lewis had read made a real impact. Lewis' lifetime of reading Latin and Greek mythology allowed him to see that the Gospels were not written as myths-- they did not have the same qualities. Lewis contends that the only two valid worldviews could be Christianity or Hinduism, but notes that Hindu mythology lack the historical evidences and basis that Christianity has; hence, he rejects Hinduism. Lewis also had a nagging sense of lack of joy-- something he was unsure whether he wanted. But it seemed Christianity would be the solution-- it would give him a worldview with a finality of how it all comes together. It would free him to love.

So, on the final pages Lewis decides to become a Christian. No Emmaeus road experiences, just a decision to become a Christian while going to the zoo. Thus the book concludes abruptly.

I give it 2.5 stars out of 5. If you're a huge C.S. Lewis fan, then you can read this book to understand the man better. If you're just interested in the final events leading Lewis from atheism to Christianity, as many were at the time of his writing, then read the last few chapters.

[the_hibernator · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

In this short memoir, C. S. Lewis describes his spiritual journey from youthful atheist to firm and faithful believer. This isn't so much a memoir of Lewis' life, although it does contain some interesting anecdotes about his school years, he only focuses on incidents in his life that impacted his spiritual development. I have read many spiritual development memoirs, and this one is like the others...only it stands out because it is a classic--It was written when these types of journeys were not as commonly shared in memoirs. (In fact, I suspect that this book inspired so many of the spiritual-journey memoirs that we see today.) One thing I found interesting about this book is it explained to me why so many people retro-diagnose Lewis with Asperger's syndrome. He talked about his difficulties dealing with other students...not knowing how to respond in social situations...being told to "take that look off {his} face" when he was trying very hard to keep an appropriate facial expression. I think it is important to recognize that we can't accurately retro-diagnose people with today's syndromes, but it IS interesting to see how such personality traits were present in Lewis' day, and how he excused them with stories about how childhood events affected his social interactions. It was definitely an interesting read...and anyone who likes to hear about others' spiritual journeys really should start with C. S. Lewis.

[mikalina_1 · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

Philosophy is not a subject, it is a way of living. For the brave! Lewis conversion to christianity is a a modern retelling of the story of Jacob´s fight with the Angel. With his head very much sleeping on a stone the fight was long and hard. But Lewis was not able to run from the questions raised and debated through the inborn dialectics that is our common human heritage since we took the fruit of knowledge. He explores fantasy in all its possible meanings; aknowledges all the roads fantasy can bring us on, including the sexual, occult and magical fantasies. He find that they all leaves him unfulfilled, they do not bring joy like the joy he knows through glimpses (most of us experiences), the unexpected bliss, that neither sex nor the occult or magical can replace. God was not the obvious solution for Lewis. A seasoned dialectician, the fight is long and hard. Lewis fights teism and Christianity until he is caught up in "an undebateable reality." We know the outcome of the conclusion he reached; To Lewis philosophy was not a subject, but a way of living, he continued to fight, bending fantasy to becoming the most unlikely soldier for the ultimate human(e) reality.

[gtwise · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

It's been quite a few years since I read this book, and I now have a far different worldview than I did when I read it, but this book continues to interest me as I continue to be interested in the possibility of and nature of religious experiences. It is no longer fresh in my mind what he wrote and, considering I read it back in High School, there was much that he discussed that probably meant nothing to me then that would mean something to me now. But that's why I'm writing this review with it as a distant memory, I want to talk about what was in the book that stuck with me.There exists a feeling that comes upon people at some times. I do not know if it comes to all people – though I have no reason for supposing that it is available to some men and not others, barring the possibility that it has to be prompted by certain environmental factors that some people may not be exposed to – what is important is that the feeling exists. In my opinion, the discussion of this feeling, which Lewis calls “joy” is the greatest contribution this book makes. If you are a Christian, this book is valuable as a discussion of some part of human nature that cries out for another world. If you are an atheist, this book is valuable as an example of some peculiarity of human psychology that leads people to search for God.“If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world. If none of my earthly pleasures satisfy it, that does not prove that the universe is a fraud. Probably earthly pleasures were never meant to satisfy it, but only to arouse it, to suggest the real thing.” (A quote from Mere Christianity, which I imagine was a reference to the desire that Lewis came to call “joy”)You will get plenty of discussion about the rampant homosexuality in the school Lewis was sent to (which was largely a result of Lewis's own overly-sexual and overly-suspicious view of his peers. His older brother was baffled by his portrayal of their school), you will get information about Lewis's time with Kirkpatrick where he began to put on intellectual muscle from a very logical, literal, and precise teacher, you will read about him enduring time as a soldier in World War I, him attaining a prestigious teaching post, and plenty about his love for mythology – especially Norse mythology. You won't find many logical proofs about what led him to Christianity. You won't get a list of facts that Lewis took into account to determine that Christianity was more likely than otherwise. The book would be worse if he included them, as they would detract from the main contribution the book makes: the personal and subjective account of what led a reasonable and intelligent man to place his faith in Christ, and his account of an experience of longing and desire called Joy.If you put aside the pretenses of commitment to facts and evidence that both sides posture with, you will get an glimpse of what can really move an intelligent man to faith – whether or not you consider a move to faith to be an improvement. Or, perhaps just as likely, you yourself may have felt what Lewis called Joy: a bittersweet longing and desire, in which case this book will give you an opportunity to read how he reacted to that experience. Or maybe you think Lewis is just a ridiculous man, well, he certainly won't change your mind here, but you might find some opportunities to laugh at him if that's how you get your kicks. If religious experiences and conversion stories interest you, or if you are interested in Lewis in general, I highly recommend the book. If your main interest is apologetics, I advise skipping this one.[As a general caution, I would recommend reading this book as events that happened in C. S. Lewis's life – as Jack would want you to believe them. This book was nicknamed “Suppressed by Jack” among those intimate with the details of Lewis's life. That's not to say it is not valuable, merely that it should not be taken as true, at least as far as it concerns Lewis's account of his external circumstances. If you want his biography, you can look up George Sayer's book Jack. This book is more valuable for insight into Lewis's internal development.]

[donna828 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

This introduction to the life of C. S. (Jack) Lewis goes into great detail about the imaginary worlds he and his brother created as young children in Belfast and his boarding school experiences. He was not in a particularly religious family but he had unlimited access to the many books his father collected. He valued his solitude and "hours of golden reading." He immersed himself in the world of the Norse gods and developed a dual inner-outer life, although he repeatedly reminds the reader that he never mistook imagination for reality.The turning point in his young life came when his mother died of cancer. He was only 9 years old at the time and his world was further turned upside down when he was sent to boarding school in England only one month after her death. This was the boarding school from hell. It was here that he began to seriously read the Bible and spent hours in prayer, perhaps to get relief from the brutal headmaster who was later declared insane. Prayers were answered and he changed school two years later. It was at Malvern prep school that he dabbled in the occult and dropped his Christian ideals "with the greatest relief" but still struggled with contradictory feelings. While he believed God did not exist, he was angry at Him for not existing and for creating the world in the first place! The purpose of writing this book was to relate his conversion experience. The many influences on Jack's life make for interesting reading, though the time spent in WWI and his early teaching career at Oxford are glossed over. Mostly, this is a book about the friends and "glories of literature" that slowly led him from the early path of his "stabs" of joy that he called an "unsatisfied desire which is more desirable than any other satisfaction" to the point of decision where "the great Angler played His fish and I never dreamed that the hook was in my tongue." It was in 1929 that Jack Lewis finally "gave in, and admitted that God was God, and knelt and prayed: perhaps, that night, the most dejected and reluctant convert in all England."

[wisewoman_1 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

C. S. Lewis's Surprised By Joy is subtitled "The Shape of My Early Life," and is mainly about his childhood and young adulthood. In this spiritual autobiography Lewis traces the slow hand of God moving in the events and influences of his young life, through his atheism and finally into his spiritual surrender when he finally, reluctantly admitted that "God was God" (228).Some things shocked me (I can't take the rampant pederasty of British public schools with quite Lewis's aplomb); other things merely surprised me. I learned a lot of things I didn't know about Lewis, such as his difficult relationship with his brilliant but eccentric father, his various boarding-school experiences, and his interest in the occult.He traces his atheism and general pessimism about life as far back as the chronic, unusually marked clumsiness he possessed even as a child. He believes that because of this clumsiness, he soon grew to expect that everything he touched would go wrong somehow, that things going well was the exception and not the rule. His mother's death of cancer when he was ten years old also had a profound effect on his worldview.Lewis also explores his early creative and rational influences. His friend Arthur had a strong part in helping Lewis appreciate what Arthur termed "Homeliness," a type of cozy beauty in sharp contrast to Lewis's passion for Wagner and Norse mythology and what he called "Northernness." This passion Arthur also shared, but rounded it with a love of simple, wholesome sights and ideas. Lewis also talks about his friend Jenkins who taught him to savor the taste of everything, even ugly things, to enjoy them fully for what they are. The influence of Lewis's strictly rationalist tutor, William Kirkpatrick, is also acknowledged as a deep debt. All of this is written in Lewis's characteristically excellent prose. I loved this passage about his final thrashings before accepting the reality of God:The fox had been dislodged from Hegelian Wood and was now running in the open, "with all the wo in the world," bedraggled and weary, hounds barely a field behind. And nearly everyone was now (in one way or another) in the pack; Plato, Dante, MacDonald, Herbert, Barfield, Tolkien, Dyson, Joy itself. Everyone and everything had joined the other side. (225)I am finding that the more I learn about Lewis, the more divided I become. I agree with him more; I agree with him less. It is hard to really articulate where we are different (well, besides his obvious and all-permeating Arminian leanings which conflict sharply with my Calvinist tenets). I think one of the issues may be Lewis's reliance on and almost religious respect for literature besides the Bible. Of course he is detailing a period in which he was first reading the world's great literature as a student and lover of beauty, so naturally he will have a lot to say about its influence on his thinking and development. And I have to remember too that Lewis is a Christian thinker, not a pastor charged with preaching the full counsel of God and illuminating Scripture to his flock. I do think, however, that at bottom I have a much deeper reverence for Scripture than Lewis has displayed in the books of his that I've read so far. This both simplifies and complicates my thoughts about him and his work. The thread that ties everything together in this story is the central idea of Joy, which Lewis describes as the "unsatisfied desire which is itself more desirable than any other satisfaction" (17–18). These flashes of beauty, themselves insufficient, point to something else, something outside the person experiencing this longing. Ultimately Lewis connects Joy with the desire to know the source of all Joy, God. Those flashes of beauty and the unfulfilled longings are divinely given. And yet they are not the goal. Lewis writes, But what, in conclusion, of Joy? for that, after all, is what the story has been mainly about. To tell you the truth, the subject has lost nearly all interest for me since I became a Christian... I believe (if the thing were at all worth recording) that the old stab, the old bittersweet, has come to me as often and as sharply since my conversion as at any time of my life whatever. But I now know that the experience, considered as a state of my own mind, had never had the kind of importance I once gave it. It was valuable only as a pointer to something other and outer. While that other was in doubt, the pointer naturally loomed large in my thoughts. When we are lost in the woods the sight of a signpost is a great matter... But when we have found the road and are passing signposts every few miles, we shall not stop and stare. They will encourage us and we will be grateful to the authority that set them up. But we shall not stop and stare, or not much; not on this road, though their pillars are of silver and their lettering of gold. "We would be at Jerusalem." (238)This was a fascinating read on so many levels. Recommended.

[sherrythompson · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

With respect and apologies to Lewis:I love this book--it was one of the first Lewis that I read after the Narnia books and Mere Christianity. Only years later did it occur to me that--in my most humble opinion--Lewis had chosen the wrong word for that illusive feeling so close to the sorrow of loss, which eventually led him to faith. In my opinion--and based as much on my own experiences as the pages of this book--Lewis felt a longing for he knew not what, only knowing that without it he was not whole. I know or knew this feeling. To put this in the words of Tolkien, if one is blessed to discover the reality behind or beyond the longing, -then- the person experiences the eucatastrophe of Joy.Complete joy does not come first as Lewis' words in this book imply repeatedly. Yes, perhaps an ephemeral glimpse or taste of it, but it is blended almost on the instant with its loss. Real joy comes when what is behind the glimpses abides.I probably shouldn't have written this. As someone said, "Words are hard". Or perhaps stubborn. Never more so than when trying to describe something so ephemeral.

[sweetiegherkin · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

This autobiography by C.S. Lewis provides some insights into his early life, his mind, and his conversion to and belief in the Christian God. A bit rambling at times (as if you need to be in his head to fully understand) and, of course, heavily biased with religious overtones, it is nonetheless an interesting look at the famous author of The Chronicles of Narnia and other works.

[bell7_1 · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

In his introduction, Lewis makes it clear that he is not writing your normal autobiography, but is writing specifically about the events leading up to his conversion to Christianity. In some ways, I found it to be the autobiography of a mind and heart, from his early days in boarding school, his interests in mythology, and his growing dissatisfaction with the philosophies he once adhered to.I have difficulty conceiving of anyone enjoying the book unless they agreed with either his particular scholar's mind or his belief in the God of Christianity. I happen to be in the latter camp, and confess that at times his mind eluded me. Whole passages referring either to the books that most moved him or schools of modern thought of his times completely eluded my grasp, and I can only conclude that my mind must work very differently from his or that I must have a longer time on this earth before I can fully grasp his reflections on childhood, boyhood, and young adulthood. Yet then a sentence, a thought, would break through and give me pause or move me to tears. This is a book that I would reread not so much because of any initial enjoyment but because my appreciation would increase, perhaps once I read another biography or some of the classics which molded his thought.

[allenkeith · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

This book is great for anyone, but most especially for those who wonder if Christianity is substantive. It is also beneficial for those who want to strengthen their ability to articulate the substantial nature of Christianity. It merits reading because it is about a man who became a prolific writer and one of the greatest apologists for Christianity in the 20th century. C.S. Lewis in his pursuit of truth was atheistic but made a 180 degree turn about to embrace Christianity. This largely came about by those authors that he read (and, of course, by being decidedly responsive to God’s grace). He speaks of a thread of occasions in his journey when he experienced inexplicable joy, and he gives insight into his personal experience, of the events and the persons that shaped him, and more primarily the great authors that influenced him.

[porius_1 · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

Surprised by joy--impatient as the wind. Lewis tells of his early life. His father came from Welshmen, true Welshmen who were sentimental, passionate, and rhetorical, easily moved to anger and to tenderness; men who laughed and cried a great deal and who had not much of the talent for happiness. The Hamilton's (his mother's people) were a cooler race. Their minds were critical and ironic and they had the talent for happiness in a high degree--went straight to it as experienced travelers go for the best seat in the train. You must have a heart of stone not to read on.

[lukeasrodgers_1 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

Despite having one of the worst covers I've seen in a while, this short account of C.S. Lewis' religious life, culminating in his conversion to Christianity, was worthwhile and enjoyable, though perhaps not as edifying on the topic of religious conversion as I had hoped. Too much of the book is focused on unrelated descriptions and stories which, though the story might be anemic without them, tend to draw away rather than complement the book's central concern. A more serious criticism of the book is that "Joy", which figures so prominently in the book's title, is underanalyzed and underdeveloped so that for Lewis to end on a note about Joy lacks the impact it might have otherwise had. Furthermore, I found that in general the episodes explicitly related to Lewis' religious conversion which punctuated the story were likewise too underdeveloped, the details too sketchy, the experiences too understated. Perhaps that is an inevitable fact when discussing the "mystery" of how such conversion takes place. Perhaps if, as Lewis says, he had been contemplating and reflecting enough to give more specific accounts of such experiences, the experiences themselves would have been thwarted and dulled precisely by such introspection. In any case, the quality of Lewis' prose is practically beyond compare, and whatever the subject matter or disagreements I may have with him, his writing is always a pleasure to read.A key quotation: "What I learned from the Idealists (and still most strongly hold) is this maxim: it is more important that Heaven should exist than that any of us should ever reach it."

[billmeister16 · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

I am ashamed to say that it took me so long to rinally read this classic. Now, after having read it, I can testify that I was completely captivated by Lewis' journey to Christianity. It is always surprising when we realize that our joy is to be found in God, and that all the "joy" we've experience prior to salvation in Christ was not really joy at all, but rather lesser ideas of pleasure and happiness.

[arctic1stranger · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

Those looking for a "Christian testamony" will be somewhat disappointed. But Lewis, as usual, cuts deeper than most people are prepared to go. This is the story of his conversion to theism, and how JOY, an inconsistent and haunting companion, became a part of his life.

[benfulton · Calificación: 2 de 5 estrellas]

The discussion of his early life is interesting, but I didn't find Lewis's reasoning all that compelling. I can see how he moved from a belief in the Absolute into Theism, but it almost seemed that he became a Christian only since it was the latest thing, an argument that (1) applies better to Islam, and (2) is a sort of a sin that he argues against in at least two other books.