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A Grief Observed

Author(s): C. S. Lewis

ISBN13: 9780060652388

Publisher: HARPER COLLINS PUBLISHERS

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  • Written with love, humility, and faith, this brief but poignant volume was first published in 1961 and concerns the death of C. S. Lewiss wife, the American-born poet Joy Davidman. In her introduction to this new edition, Madeleine LEngle writes: "I am grateful to Lewis for having the courage to yell, to doubt, to kick at God in angry violence. This is a part of a healthy grief which is not often encouraged. It is helpful indeed that C. S. Lewis, who has been such a successful apologist for Christianity, should have the courage to admit doubt about what he has so superbly proclaimed. It gives us permission to admit our own doubts, our own angers and anguishes, and to know that they are part of the souls growth."

    Written in longhand in notebooks that Lewis found in his home, A Grief Observed probes the "mad midnight moments" of Lewiss mourning and loss, moments in which he questioned what he had previously believed about life and death, marriage, and even God. Indecision and self-pity assailed Lewis. "We are under the harrow and cant escape," he writes. "I know that the thing I want is exactly the thing I can never get. The old life, the jokes, the drinks, the arguments, the lovemaking, the tiny, heartbreaking commonplace." Writing A Grief Observed as "a defense against total collapse, a safety valve," he came to recognize that "bereavement is a universal and integral part of our experience of love."

    Lewis writes his statement of faith with precision, humor, and grace. Yet neither is Lewis reluctant to confess his continuing doubts and his awareness of his own human frailty. This is precisely the quality which suggests that A Grief Observed maybecome "among the great devotional books of our age."

  • C. S. Lewis


    C. S. Lewis (1898-1963) was one of the intellectual giants of the twentieth century and arguably the most influential Christian writer 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 English at Cambridge University, a position he held until his retirement. His major contributions in literary criticism, children's literature, fantasy literature and popular theology brought him international renown and acclaim. 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 The Chronicles of Narnia, Out of the Silent Planet, The Four Loves, The Screwtape Letters and Mere Christianity.


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    I read Lewis for comfort and pleasure many years ago, and a glance into the books revives my old admiratation.

    - John Updike

  • No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear. I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid. The same fluttering in the stomach, the same restlessness, the yawning. I keep on swallowing.

    At other times it feels like being mildly drunk, or concussed. There is a sort of invisible blanket between the world and me. I find it hard to take in what anyone says. Or perhaps, hard to want to take it in. It is so uninteresting. Yet I want the others to be about me. I dread the moments when the house is empty. If only they would talk to one another and not to me.

    There are moments, most unexpectedly, when something inside me tries to assure me that I dont really mind so much, not so very much, after all. Love is not the whole of a mans life. I was happy before I ever met H. Ive plenty of what are called resources. People get over these things. Come, I shant do so badly. One is ashamed to listen to this voice but it seems for a little to be making out a good case. Then comes a sudden jab of red-hot memory and all this commonsense vanishes like an ant in the mouth of a furnace.

    On the rebound one passes into tears and pathos. Maudlin tears. I almost prefer the moments of agony. These are at least clean and honest. But the bath of self-pity, the wallow, the loathsome sticky-sweet pleasure of indulging it that disgusts me. And even while Im doing it I know it leads me to misrepresent H. herself. Give that mood its head and in a few minutes I shall have substituted for the real woman a mere doll to be blubbered over. Thank God the memory of her is still too strong (will it always be too strong?) to let me get awaywith it.

    For H. wasnt like that at all. Her mind was lithe and quick and muscular as a leopard. Passion, tenderness, and pain were all equally unable to disarm it. It scented the first whiff of cant or slush; then sprang,and knocked you over before you knew what was happening. How many bubbles of mine she pricked! I soon learned not to talk rot to her unless I did it for the sheer pleasure and theres another red-hot jab of being exposed and laughed at. I was never less silly than as H.s lover.

    And no one ever told me about the laziness of grief. Except at my job where the machine seems to run on much as usual I loathe the slightest effort. Not only writing but even reading a letter is too much. Even shaving. What does it matter now whether my cheek is rough or smooth? They say an unhappy man wants distractions something to take him out of himself. Only as a dog-tired man wants an extra blanket on a cold night; hed rather lie there shivering than get up and find one. Its easy to see why the lonely become untidy, finally, dirty and disgusting.

    Meanwhile, where is God? This is one of the most disquieting symptoms. When you are happy, so happy that you have no sense of needing Him, so happy that you are tempted to feel His claims upon you as an interruption, if you remember yourself and turn to Him with gratitude and praise, you will be or so it feels welcomed with open arms. But go to Him when your need is desperate, when all other help is vain, and what do you find? A door slammed in your face, and a sound of bolting and double bolting on the inside. After that, silence. You may as well turn away. The longer you wait, the more emphatic the silence will become. There are no lights in the windows. It might be an empty house. Was it ever inhabited? It seemed so once. And that seeming was as strong as this. What can this mean? Why is He so present a commander in our time of prosperity and so very absent a help in time of trouble?

    I tried to put some of these thoughts to C. this afternoon. He reminded me that the same thing seems to have happened to Christ: Why hast thou forsaken me? I know. Does that make it easier to understand?

    Not that I am (I think) in much danger of ceasing to believe in God. The real danger is of coming to believe such dreadful things about Him. The conclusion I dread is not So theres no God after all, but So this is what Gods really like. Deceive yourself no longer.

    Our elders submitted and said, Thy will be done. How often had bitter resentment been stifled through sheer terror and an act of love yes, in every sense, an act put on to hide the operation?

    Of course its easy enough to say that God seems absent at our greatest need because He is absent non-existent. But then why does He seem so present when, to put it quite frankly, we dont ask for Him?

    One thing, however, marriage has done for me. I can never again believe that religion is manufactured out of our unconscious, starved desires and is a substitute for sex. For those few years H. and I feasted on love, every mode of it solemn and merry, romantic and realistic, sometimes as dramatic as a thunderstorm, sometimes as comfortable and unemphatic as putting on your soft slippers. No cranny of heart or body remained unsatisfied. If God were a substitute for love we ought to have lost all interest in Him. Whod bother about substitutes when he has the thing itself? But that isnt what happens. We both knew we wanted something besides one another quite a different kind of something, a quite different kind of want...

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A Grief Observed